


Volume 1: Over the Tracks - I

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Series: The Heart Rate of a Mouse [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: Ta-daaaaa!Trigger warnings for entire series:substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.





	1. Prologue + Chapter 1: The Apocalypse and Take it from There

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-daaaaa!
> 
>  **Trigger warnings for entire series:** substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.

I should never be trusted to drive a vehicle of any kind; not because I am a lousy driver, but because I tighten my grip of the wheel with every passing truck. I look in the newspaper every day for that one headline of a car crash where they simply don’t know what happened. Maybe the driver lost control of the car. Suffered a seizure. Was trying to dodge a child running across the street. Something to explain why his car and insides ended up painting the front of a Canadian frozen goods truck on its way from Montreal to Detroit.

I drove from Portland to Los Angeles once. It was a pleasant trip, heading south, the air getting warmer and the people more tanned. It took me four days to drive because I kept getting distracted and took a small detour in Nevada where I got drunk as hell with a guy who had worked as a circus clown all of his life. We were exactly alike, me and him. It’s easy to distract me because I never know what I should be paying attention to. Is it a new guitar model, the glimpse of something better and more dignified, a pair of brown eyes that always amplified the smile on perfectly shaped lips? During my West Coast road trip, I lost count of the times I saw an oncoming car and considered twisting the wheel to the left. Crash. Bang. Smoke.

I don’t know if anyone else has these thoughts when they drive. I’ve never asked. When I crashed the tour bus back in ’74, I found myself wondering if it was on purpose or not. I didn’t mean to do it, but maybe I subconsciously wanted to.

For a while, we thought Joe would never walk again.

Now I’m driving in a Chevy rental, navigating from O’Hare to an address scribbled on a napkin in messy handwriting that isn’t mine. The car is brown, a light brown that resembles baby shit. It was the only one they had left. The wipers make a wheezing sound as they try to battle away the heavy, wet snowfall.

“Are you nervous?”

I don’t bother looking at the kid on the passenger seat. “No.”

“Brent said,” he begins, launching into yet another lie someone has said about me. People love to talk and talk and talk about me, “that, during _Jackie_ , you were so nervous that you got drunk before every show.”

“He flatters me,” I note, annoyed that this one isn’t a lie at all – the only way I could deal with the pressure of a ten thousand-headed crowd was alcohol. Thanks, Brent, that one will make me look good. No. It will make me look like a victim. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“He also said that it got better during the second leg. You drank less, were more focused. You know, after you met _him_ ,” he points out obnoxiously. I resist the urge to steer the car off the road just to shut him up, and when he takes in his dying breath, mouthing an anguished ‘Why?’, I’ll tell him why: because he couldn’t hold his damn tongue. The white snow turns an ugly shade of traffic fume black when it hits the ground, making the surface of the road slippery, but I keep us on the road for now. “Now Gabe. He said that you were never nervous during the _Pearl_ tour. I suppose you changed.”

“You love the sound of your own voice, huh?”

“Yup,” he beams, light brown locks falling in front of his enthusiastic eyes. He has got a young, good-natured face he tries to mature with stubble, but it’s still irrevocably made childlike by the bright energy that’s always there in his words and actions. He’s got slightly hollow cheeks and narrow line-like lips, and a forehead just a fraction tall enough to look like a mismatch. I concentrate on driving, and he falls silent for a while. When he speaks, he sounds troubled. “What if he’s forgotten? Or what if he’s still mad at you?”

“What if I’m still mad at him?”

“You’re not,” he says knowingly. I hate it when he’s right. The snowfall is slowing down, and I shift in my seat uncomfortably and feel the seatbelt scraping the side of my neck. “I’m nervous for you,” he concludes, the excitement now back. I don’t need his nerves, support or shoulder to cry on. He has no idea how much his enthusiasm wears me out. He looks at the map in his lap. “Take the next left,” he commands, and I change lanes. “You know, I wonder what he’s like. I’ve heard so much about him. It’s slightly surreal to meet a stranger that you’ve pictured naked a dozen times. Well, actually, I found this one picture in your house where he _was_ in the nude, so –”

I pull up to the curb, coming to a fast stop. He tenses up, eyes wild as he looks around. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve told you not to touch my fucking stuff,” I say again. _Again._ The nosy little bastard. “Here, your stop,” I tell him and point out of his window to a shop door that has green, cursive letters: C-A-F-É. “Go get yourself coffee.” Like he needs to be more hyper.

His mouth drops open dramatically. “I’m coming with you!”

I grit my teeth and smile. “No, you’re not.” I glare at him, and he glares back. “Out, Sisky! Out!”

Sisky throws his hands up into the air. “You’re seriously not letting me witness the reunion that would make Romeo and Juliet seem like –”

“There was no reunion for those two – they died.”

“Oh.” Sisky pulls on his bottom lip uncertainly, but recovers quickly. “I never finished the movie, truth be told. They spoke English in such a weird way.”

I unbuckle myself and get out of the car. Chicago is cold, snowflakes landing on my black coat and melting into it. I round the Chevy and open Sisky’s door.

“Okay, okay!” the kid shouts, lifting up his hands. “I’m out! See! Look at how out I am!” He scrunches his nose at the cold, looking more comic than hurt as he shoots me a nasty look.

“I’ll come get you later,” I promise.

“If you don’t, I know where he lives!” He has taken out his black leather notebook and is scribbling in it furiously, completely ignoring the sleet.

I stop at my open door and give him a disbelieving look. “Don’t take notes now.”

“ _As the infamous Ryan Ross nervously re-entered the car, dumping his devoted and loyal companion by the side of the road like yet another groupie he had loved then abandoned like an unwanted kitten –_ ”

I don’t hear the rest as the door slams shut and I take off. Sisky’s reflection sulks into the café in the rear-view mirror, and I glance at the map on his now empty seat. It doesn’t take me long to get where I’m going.

The car on the driveway is black and classy, this year’s model, a ‘79. It’s much more tasteful than what I park in front of the house, and for a wild moment, I hope none of the Chicagoans living on Brendon’s street notice the has-been rock star arriving in such a tacky excuse of four tyres and a wheel. If it is Brendon’s house, which I have my doubts about. A young man with a guitar case is coming down the street, and I wait for him to pass. It’s paranoia to fear he’d recognise me, but I never did know what to say to the fans to begin with.

Music is not about the man behind it, and therefore any interest people have in me is unwarranted. All they need to know, all they should want to know, is already there in the music. And no one ever understood that apart from me. They never –

But I don’t want to think about it anymore.

I take my bag to the door with me. It’s presumptuous, but with the final shows being local, I’m assuming Brendon is staying at home. I shouldn’t assume anything when it comes to him. I learned that the hard way.

The door opens on the fifth ring.

“Ye –”

The rest of Brendon’s sentence fades away as his eyes land on me. Brendon looks a little older, which makes me realise how overdue I am. He has a slightly off look that comes with his line of work, bags under his brown eyes. I would know how that life throws anyone off balance. But if anything, he looks more like a man, more mature. He keeps doing that to me. I don’t mind.

“Heard you’re shacking up in Chicago now,” I explain and state it like a fact I have as much interest in as the heart rate of a mouse, the melting point of silver. None at all.

“Yeah,” he nods tiredly, eyes averting, the cornered prey after an exhausting hunt where he is the deer and I am the wolf. After a long, long time, neither one of us seems to be running. Brendon doesn’t look surprised to see me. I am not a predictable man; he could at least gasp a little. The tiniest bit. Just to amuse me. I’m fucking surprised that I’m here.

“So much for being old friends,” I note and don’t give him a chance to reply. “Invite me in for a beer.”

Brendon shakes his head. “I’m busy.”

Sisky was right. He is still mad.

“I’m busy too, but here I am anyway.”

I stare him down. My stomach curls up now that I am in his presence, but he doesn’t sense it.

Brendon sighs and holds the door open, and I step into the living room, throw my bag onto the couch. Being here, travelling across the country for the one guy, the only guy who ever came out to look at the night sky with me and invent new constellations, and I – Fucking hell. I will stand my ground and act my best to convince myself that it means nothing to me. I lick my lips, remember what he tastes like.

“One beer, but then I have to go,” Brendon mutters and heads for the kitchen, and I stare after him quietly. He slows down and turns back around, a hesitating look on his face. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“I was counting on it.”

He looks straight at me, and I am right back there in Ottawa, outside Civic Center where we kissed next to the tour bus that I had not yet smashed. I’m in the cabin up in Bismarck where I handed him some part of me that he politely declined. I’m in San Francisco picking a fight with him, in New York watching him go through records he doesn’t plan on buying as he sneaks glances at me working behind the counter, and then we are on the backroom floor, hoping to god Eric doesn’t come early for his shift. Brendon says, “I can get you a backstage pass.”

“Could you get two? I came with this kid.”

“What kid?” His voice is tense.

“My stalker.”

He makes a disbelieving ‘tut’ with his tongue. “You sure know how to pick your friends.”

“And lovers, though he’s not one of those,” I say calculatedly.

Brendon doesn’t deny that that’s what he was asking. “I can get two.”

“Thanks.”

He points at my bag. “You staying here tonight?”

“Sure,” I shrug. He nods nervously and heads for the kitchen.

I have swerved my car onto his lane, and we have collided yet again.

Crash.

Bang.

Smoke.

  


**Vol. 1: Over the Tracks I**

  


**Chapter 1: The Apocalypse and Take it from There**

I have to be insane or suicidal. Maybe both, because the two certainly are not mutually exclusive.

Pete sits across from me, a lazy smile on his lips. My mouth remains hanging open as I look back to the paper and then back at him again.

“We can still make a few changes,” he informs me reassuringly, and it is clear that he would be happy to squeeze a few more dates somewhere in there. He would be pleased, the money hungry bastard. He is without a doubt the most capitalistic hippie I know.

I pass the paper to Joe, who pushes frizzy, brown locks from his handsome face and peers at the list of tour dates. His blue eyes light up, and knowing him, it’s from the prospect of all the girls and all the partying he will get to do. Brent leans over Joe’s shoulder, making approving sounds. I knew Joe would be pleased, but Brent? Goddamn backstabber. Spencer takes the news like a man, playing the mediator like he always does.

I shake my head, laugh in disbelief, and my bandmates take no notice of me. “Come on!” I cry out to get the attention I deserve, and the words echo back from the walls of Pete’s office. The noises from the outside offices of Capitol momentarily go even muter, and in my mind’s eye, I see their interns and A&Rs sneaking to eavesdrop outside Pete’s door.

“Is there a problem?” Pete asks calmly, his voice like peaceful waves coming from the sea, gently making contact with the shore, his brown eyes staring at me patiently. Black hair flops to cover his left eye, and that’s right. Hide, you bastard.

“Yes!”

I grab the sheet again and throw it at Pete. My hands are bound as far as firing the fucker is concerned, but I can complain as loud as I can and let him know that this front man is _not_ happy. “What the fuck is this? I had agreed to a summer tour, but this? Fuck! Five shows in New York? Why the hell do we need to do five shows in goddamn New York?”

“They love you there. They love you everywhere, or have you slept through the past few months? You guys are the shit right now, you’re groovy. Also, you really should check your contract – you’ve already agreed to do this tour. You can’t weasel out of this, Ryan.”

Pete has placed a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. My hands are bound.

Spencer nudges my shoulder. “Not like you had other plans, right?” he asks, but his voice conveys almost as much enthusiasm as I feel.

“I did have other plans,” I claim. Get drunk. Get laid. Get high. Write songs. Record them. Refuse every interview that gets thrown at me. Spencer is a good spokesperson; he can handle the press. Call up Dad, remind us both of the constantly forgotten existence of a family and see if I can drive up to Bismarck to spend a few weeks in his cabin, just me and the pine trees.

But no one cares about what I want. They want the fifty-five sold out shows, roughly and clumsily divided into two legs: East and West. The venues are bigger than anything we have headlined in before. Brent and Joe begin to talk about the stage performance, Spencer suggesting that we do a light show. That is exactly what we need, to copy bands before us, to do tricks that in no way convey our uniqueness.

Pete says that the tour dates are still subject to change. Spencer insists on a gig in Cincinnati, and Pete promises to make some calls to promoters in the area.

I imagine tens of thousands of faces that my eyes will land on in the near future. I feel sick.

“Also, now that we’re all here,” Pete says, “I suggest a band meeting.”

“Funny thing, that. You’re not in the band,” I point out.

“We should clear the air before the tour. Start it with a positive feeling. So any thoughts or concerns, now is the time to share.” Pete folds his arms and leans back in his chair.

Thoughts or concerns? Well, let’s see. I don’t even want to go on this tour. We haven’t done anything except fight since we went to the studio to record our chart wonder. If the album is filled with ‘swirls of dark energy’, it’s because we were fucking pissed off. Most bands start with a group of friends who just want to play their music, but then the business gets in the way. Fame distorts reality. You no longer make music for you, but for the fans. What will they respond to? What do they want? What will keep you on top? And everyone has a different idea of it. We’re stuck together, the four of us plus Pete, and the bonds that keep us together are getting thinner and thinner. Pre-tour thoughts or concerns. Let’s start with the apocalypse and take it from there.

“I think I should be a bit closer to Ryan on stage. And up front like he is. Not in the back left,” Joe states firmly. “My fans want to see me.”

“Naturally,” Pete nods.

“More spotlights on me. And I want a mic.”

“You don’t sing,” I smile.

“But I want to engage with my audience,” Joe smiles back.

“Brent?” Pete now asks.

“Cheese crackers in the dressing rooms. Courtesy beer bottles. Only four-star hotels on hotel nights. There always has to be jam donuts and condoms on the bus. I want one roadie to be responsible for my bass and keyboards, no fucking about with that. Just one guy so I know who to yell at. Um... let me think... You know what, I’ll make a list.” Brent grins, a hint of self-adoration on his roughly carved face, like God just couldn’t be bothered to go the extra mile that day. When Brent is in a bad mood, his eyebrows furrow over his dark brown eyes, lips looping downwards, and I am always faintly reminded of a chimpanzee.

“Spencer?”

“I’m good.”

“Come on, now.”

“No, really. We’ve decided on the drum kit, so I don’t need anything.”

Pete turns to me. “Ryan? What do you want?”

I look through the window and watch the spring wind push and shove a tree outside, and I wonder if there could be a wind strong enough to whisk it up into the air, break all the roots that have tangled up in the ground for far too long, and if there is such a wind, then it has to tell me its secret.

“I don’t want to share any hotel rooms,” I mutter.

“Done!” Pete grins, like it’s fixed, sorted out. We’re cured. Joe keeps giving me dirty glances, Brent shifts restlessly, Spencer tries to keep smiling, and I wish I had never gotten up this morning.

* * *

Spencer attempts talking me into it over a few beers. We have already sold out two of the five New York shows, so it isn’t like I even have a damn say in it.

“It’ll be fun, man,” Spencer says half-heartedly, not meaning it, and my head jerks upwards as I realise that the radio is playing our song. The bald bartender of the smoky bar is humming along to it, but he didn’t recognise me when I went over to get our second beers. Good. It’s a rock station, and it’s nearly midnight, which must justify them playing our track. They better not play it during the day when picket fence America is picking up their children from school.

“Ry, are you even listening?”

The bartender is miming the lyrics, mouth opening and closing to accommodate my voice and my lyrics. He doesn’t know what the song is about, how I felt when writing it, what the message is. But there he is, pouring another beer and abusing my words, stealing them, robbing them, dressing them up in velvet when I aimed for satin.

“Never mind,” Spencer sighs and stares at the beer left in his glass, which is not much. Spencer is overwhelmingly gifted in that department. Spencer is used to our radio airplay, but I feel surreal whenever I hear my own voice on the radio. Spencer downs his beer, his blue eyes starting to stand still slightly. He scratches his beard, and I watch the strong muscles of his arm move beneath the skin. He’s got a friendly face, the kind that makes you want to tell him all of your secrets. It’s taken me years to try and resist the urge.

The radio commentator says, _And that was The Followers with their single_ Alienation _from their brand new and critically acclaimed album Boneless. I don’t know about you, but the record is definitely already in my collection!_

I tune out the rest.

“Look, remember when we supported Floyd back in ‘71?” Spencer starts again, and I nod. Fucking hell I remember. Nine thousand people and the four of us on stage. No one knew us. No one cared. “Venues big like that, it’s like... having sex with a stranger.”

“Something I do regularly, then?” I suggest, and Spencer waves his hand to tell me to shut up.

“My point is that, yeah, we’re headlining this time. But they already like us, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. And the venues are so big that there is absolutely no intimacy. So whatever, you don’t have to impress these strangers. We get on stage, we play, we bow. We leave. A one-night stand,” he explains. It makes sense in its own way. I can bear my soul for the fans to see. They won’t look closely enough to notice it.

“Maybe,” I grant him eventually, putting down my empty bottle. “I gotta get going. Jac said she might drop by.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you put up with her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I ask and put my jacket on. “She’s faithful most of the time. More than you can ask a woman these days.”

Spencer scoffs, but he’s young. His head is still dazed from heartbreak, but when it clears up, he will realise that we’re not in the fifties anymore. Sixties happened, you can’t take it back. I lost my virginity at Woodstock, you can’t take that back either, not that I would want to because Fauna was a beautiful woman. She didn’t want anything of me except that one night. That’s how women are now – they want to experience something beautiful with you, and they’re not that bothered if you disappear afterwards. It’s 1974, for Christ’s sake – the world has changed, and that change is irreversible. There is a sexual revolution to go with our musical one.

“Is Jac coming on tour?” Spencer asks.

“Nah.”

I don’t want her fucking all of my friends. Spencer asks me to stay for another drink, but I decline. “I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but you shouldn’t drink so much. Seriously. It’s been months and _months_ , man. She was just a girl, and she certainly didn’t deserve you,” I tell him firmly, and he nods wearily. He knows, of course. She was a girl, he thought it was love, and it’s over now. He made the right choice by choosing the band, even if we are... the knights of destruction. The ambassadors of loss. Coming together, but mostly just falling apart.

“Dime a dozen,” Spencer concludes, and I feel us coming together just a little bit.

I find Jac outside my building, smoking a cigarette that I stop to share with her. She tells me about her bitch of a sister, and a hickey is peaking through the blonde locks of her hair. I don’t really care who left it there, right above her left collarbone. I know she’d want me to be jealous, but I’ve never had it in me. Not for her, not for anyone. It’s not like she loves me.

“Fifty-five shows,” I tell her. “We kick off in a month.”

Her eyes light up, and I know that look. It means she’s up to no good, but she will get away with it. She’s a pretty girl with a doll-like face and big, innocent eyes. She’s tiny and astoundingly beautiful naked, and plenty of men know that. A few girls too if there is any truth in her stories, which I doubt there is. Jac uses her looks to get under people’s skin because she is scared shitless no one will like her for herself. She has confidence for the two of us, which is probably why I have stuck around. Or maybe she has stuck around. She keeps me guessing about that.

“Come on, let’s go up,” I say.

We don’t make it to my bed. We are half-dressed in the living room with her panties down to her ankles and my fly open when she finds out I have no intention of taking her on tour with me. She swears and pushes me off, steps out of the pink underwear and heads for the door.

If she never comes back, I could keep the panties as a memory.

“It’s a small bus,” I explain. “There is no room for you, baby. You can fly up to meet us in Detroit if you want.”

“And what the _fuck_ would I want in Detroit?” she barks back. The illusion of her doll face vanishes fast when she hates my guts. Her eyebrows get drawn together, forming a thin line there is no crossing. Her hands are in fists, and she raises them up dramatically and brings them back down, making a sound like, instead of the skinny woman she is, she is a wounded bull staring down the matador.

“I dunno,” I shrug.

“Fuck you, Ryan Ross. Fuck. _You_.”

She points a finger at me to make sure I know I am the Ryan Ross of her nightmares before leaving with a bang. I mutter a curse and find a whisky bottle, getting out my black electric and playing White Light/White Heat to calm myself down, and I force myself not to think about the fifty-five shows, fifty-five shows, fifty-godddamn-five shows.

I will hang myself in the dressing room in Philly. That’ll show Pete.

The old lady next door starts banging on the wall to shut me up. Count that as one person who will be delighted to hear of my upcoming absence.

* * *

The studio lights are making me sweat. I have makeup on me, but it’s not enough to put me behind a defensive wall. The audience is seated and not a mass of cheering, beer chugging rock fans. They are members of charity organisations, house wives, bored husbands with even the top button done, and they stare at me over their glasses and wonder what my parents did wrong. The woman from makeup is trying to convince Joe to tie his curly, long hair in a ponytail, but he refuses while Spencer swirls drumsticks and adjusts the bandanna around his head. It’s a new touch to his stage look. Brent doesn’t really have a distinctive style of his own, he just lets his dark brown hair hang over his head like a wet towel, the tips sweeping past his shoulders. He doesn’t give a shit. Joe goes for the same impression by obsessing over every belt and skin-tight costume that show most of his chest through a V-cut that goes all the way to his belly button.

I know we’re behind the times with our mix and match approach, riding the wave that could be the last one for prog. I went to see David’s show last summer, when he was promoting Ziggy. When he _was_ Ziggy and the band were the Spiders. It was an amazing show, I admit that, but it would be too much fuss for us to come up with characters and stories. Not that we’re tame. Fuck tame, and forget the boy choir haircuts and matching suits, this is not the fucking sixties. We’re just us. I wanted to have that level of immediacy with the music with no bullshit theatrics involved, but the ship of musical sincerity has sailed. A big show alienates the audience, distorts the music. Big venues are to blame. Money is to blame. I don’t want to become another Ziggy.

But when you hit the charts, you have three options. You either suck it up, gloat in it, or you fall apart. I’m trying my best not to go for the third option.

“Are you ready to play?” the director’s assistant now asks me. I nod, making sure my bandmates are ready too. Spencer clears his throat behind the drum kit, Joe tests his microphone one last time. Our first TV performance.

We wait for some more lighting fine-tuning, and I watch the director snapping at the sound engineer. Behind the cameras, Pete and Jac are watching on beside the bleachers. Jac waves and blows me a kiss, a wild smile on her face, exactly the same as it was on the night I met her. She’s taller than Pete in her green platform shoes. I’m wearing one of her hat designs to go with my tweed vest, t-shirt and jeans. The hat has got red flowers sticking to the side. I didn’t choose it, but I genuinely like it. It’s a nice change when I don’t have to lie to her.

“I thought she was mad at you,” Spencer mumbles when I go have a word with him.

“She was,” I shrug. Her threats and our fights mean nothing. “When do we have the crew practice?”

“Brent, when’s the crew practice?” Spencer calls out.

“Tomorrow,” the bassist says. Already. I need to pack up for the tour.

“You better be there,” Spencer mumbles and shoots me a look. I scoff loudly and silently curse him. I was only _maybe_ thinking about having my grandmother die a thirty-sixth time.

The TV people are finally ready, and the overenthusiastic host introduces us as they begin recording. We play our song. It’s the shortest off the new album, only five minutes and twenty seconds. I forget the cameras and focus on the music, the moment where the drums kick in between the third and fourth part, the second before we change the signature to 11:13. Brent switches between bass and piano halfway through, and I sing. My voice is raw and untrained, just like the music strives to be, though every second has been calculated and obsessed over. I know I have made a decent song if I have driven myself insane and lost sleep over it.

The director keeps motioning for me to look up into the cameras. I ignore him and sing to his shoes.

“The Followers, everyone!” the host says as the audience applauds. Joe and I are directed to the chairs where we sit down for the interview. Joe has insisted that he should be interviewed more. Good. The fewer interviews I do, the happier I’ll be. But still the host mostly addresses me because they know I am the songwriter, front man, lyricist, vocalist. I am the product which they buy.

I give replies to his awkward questions.

“This is your third album. What is it about the new record that gave The Followers the recognition the first two didn’t receive?”

I scratch my cheek. Cameras roll. Smile, Ryan. Be amiable, Ryan. 

“Our first two albums got a very good reaction in certain circles. It’s not my fault if they never reached your ears,” I say and play it off with a smile. The audience laughs. My skin begins to itch. I feel thirsty. The host has horribly yellow teeth.

“You are all very talented players,” the host says but frowns. “I only have one question. Why does it have to be so _loud_?”

Behind the cameras, Jac covers her mouth with a hand to muffle her laughter. I don’t have anything to say.

* * *

The crew practice is like a high school reunion except no one feels ashamed when they head straight for the alcohol to suffer less from the awkward catching up. Andy Hurley and William Beckett listen in and ask questions as we go through the set. On the nights we play _Sore Skill_ , Joe will need his blue Fender tuned half a step down. If _Miranda’s Dream_ makes the setlist, then Brent will need his five-string bass. We fill the practice space with all of the gear that needs to be taken on tour as Pete makes notes on extra strings, bridge pins and drumsticks. Andy has photographic memory, as I recall from our previous tour, and he looks at my effects pedals only once before remembering the correct order. We’ve toured with both guys before.

“Where are Zack and Simon?” Joe asks as we set up to play. The real stages will be three, four, maybe even five times bigger than the room we’re in. I look around for the two missing roadies, and William shakes his head. William’s around my age and has taken hair tips from Joe, but instead of Joe’s frizzy chocolate brown curls, William’s are a lighter brown. He is as tall as me and just as skinny, but whereas I try to hide my bony limbs, William manages to pull on the tightest jeans imaginable. He is too effeminate and emotional for my liking, even his facial features resemble that of a girl’s, but he is a good roadie, and even I have to admit it, though I’m not too crazy about the guy.

“I’m sure Zack and Simon will be here shortly,” Pete hurries to say, fearing mutiny. Spencer throws a vest over his red t-shirt and sits behind his new drum kit, a boyish glee in his eyes. I relax at the sight of it. I need him on this tour. I will not _survive_ this summer if Spencer’s not there, and while I acknowledge that, I resent myself for being a co-dependent leech. I didn’t used to be like this.

There are a lot of things that I once were that I no longer am.

Andy fusses around with cables with a roll of duck tape between his teeth, carrying it like a dog would carry a bone. He tapes my mic cable to the floor, crawling on all fours. “You want it like this or like this?” he asks, looking up at me and pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s got thick, reddish brown hair down to his shoulders, slightly bushy eyebrows that hang over his attentive grey eyes. Andy’s the philosopher of the group. He and Spencer have sat down and talked about death, love, the war, and whatever else, until morning. I’ve sometimes sat with them and listened. Andy swears by acid and how it broadens your mind. It broadens his a bit too much at times, but it’s good to have at least one self-professed intellectual on the bus.

Working out how to play the new songs live is hard. We end up fighting and bickering twenty minutes in when Joe magically starts singing the chorus to _Her Shadow_. I sing the chorus, Brent does some backups. Joe doesn’t sing in any song. He never has.

“You said you wanted the mic to talk between songs and –”

“Well, why can’t I sing too?”

“Because you can’t hold a fucking note!”

“Oh, and you can?”

“Yes, actually!”

Joe turns to Pete. “What do you think?”

“Don’t talk to him! Was he there when the four of us sat down and started this band? Huh? Was he? Don’t fucking ask _Pete_ –”

“I think –” Pete starts.

“Shut up!” I point a daring finger at him.

“Don’t threaten the devil’s advocate,” Brent mutters under his breath but loud enough for me to hear. He isn’t being diplomatic, god no. Brent is just not taking my side.

“If I want to sing –”

“It doesn’t matter what you want! You don’t start raping my music –”

“Oh! Oh! There we have it! _His_ music? Did you hear that, Andy? William? Pete, did you hear that?” Joe asks, looking around for support. The boyish glee is gone from Spencer’s face, a grey, worn out look on his features as he lifelessly stares at his drum kit. My blood boils and I squeeze the neck of my guitar with both hands, wanting to fling the instrument over my shoulder and smash it against Joe’s head.

Spencer stands up. When he speaks, his voice is emotionless. “I am sure that what Ryan meant was –”

“I know what he meant!” Joe storms.

The door slams open, and Zack Hall walks in. He’s a huge guy, roughly the size of a bulky, eighteenth century oak cabinet. He makes me look like a twig if he stands next to me. I’m a tall guy, but Zack is taller and probably weighs five times what I do. He’s got the strength of a bull and he keeps his hair short so that no one can grab it when he gets into a fight. That’s what he says, anyway. But beneath the scary physical first impression, he’s a good guy. Quirky, definitely, mean, sometimes, but he’s not evil in the slightest. He keeps people in their places, and maybe it’s this sudden appearance of his that makes me and Joe both shut up.

Pete exhales. “Zack! You’re here! Excellent! Where’s Simon?”

“At home. He woke up this morning, still drunk from last night, fell down the stairs, broke his left leg in two places. I drove him to the hospital, which is why I’m late, and oh, by the by, Simon will not be coming on tour with us.” Zack stops and takes a long look at us all. “Why the long faces?”

That’s it. The tour is over.

I carefully put my guitar in her stand as Brent realises the damage that has been done to him. “Who will be responsible for my instruments, then?!” Brent asks angrily, and as defiantly as I was telling the guys not to put their faith in Pete, I am now grateful that our manager is there to take the fall. I have double standards just like the rest.

The room is filled with angered and frustrated exclamations as I round Zack and walk out of the room, up the basement stairs, along the corridor and out of the building. Los Angeles is cloudy.

I light a cigarette with shaking hands. That’s it. No tour. We can’t do it.

A homeless man is leaning against the brick wall, and I throw him two quarters. He tells me to fuck off.

“Don’t you know who I am?” I ask, half-serious, half-sardonic.

“No!” he barks angrily, scratching his face with dirty fingers and mumbling to himself incoherently.

“Me neither,” I admit and walk away from him. Damn Simon. My fault for getting him into whisky on our last tour. Only three things can ruin a man: fame, women and twelve-year-old whisky. Damn Joe. I don’t need a guitarist who thinks he’s a vocalist. Joe is the most handsome of the four of us by general consensus, thanks to his charisma, toned body and manly face with a pair of sparkly blue eyes. He doesn’t need to sing to get more chicks, so why is he doing this? To torture me? That’s it, to goddamn torture me.

The cigarette shakes between my fingers as the tension of the practice room makes my entire body tremble. Sweat pours down my neck, and I swallow hard, close my eyes when the world goes out of focus. I want this music. I want this band. But laced within that are a million things I could live without.

“Ryan.”

I open my eyes. Brent takes the cigarette from me without asking, and he is nearly serene as he looks across the street like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “So listen, William said that he has a friend, some guy he knows, who can take Simon’s place. William swears by him.”

“But will he come on such short notice?”

“To tour with America’s most rocking band?” Brent asks, clearly enjoying the superlative. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fucking idiot. He will.”

A new guy might not fit in, though I will most likely get voted as the most antisocial again so it’s not likely to affect me. Maybe it won’t matter much, but I worry. When it comes to this tour, I will worry about every damn thing.

“I was thinking we could just tell the sound engineers to turn down Joe’s vocals during songs. Either that or let him embarrass himself once, and then he’ll stop. The narcissistic fucker can’t sing, you’re right about that,” Brent says thoughtfully. He thinks Joe is an asshole. Brent, by default, thinks everyone is an asshole, and he thinks it of me too.

“Joe can’t mess up the music. He just – I have to protect it. The music.”

“Is that what it’s about? The music?” He sounds amused.

“If it’s not about the music, then what is it about?” I ask angrily. Brent finishes the cigarette and pats my back. He pities me on top of everything else.

“The situation is not ideal for any of us. The new guy will have to learn on the job, and who knows how qualified he is to look after my instruments? But we’ll deal,” he shrugs. “Come on, we’ve got to figure out the rest of the songs.” Brent pushes slightly greasy hair from his forehead and walks back inside.

And I am expected to follow like us Followers do. Christ.

I head back for the door, and two girls walking down the street recognise me as they walk past. My sudden emergence doesn’t give them time to do anything except stare at me, let it kick in, their mouths dropping open, and then they hush, “Ryan” and “The Followers”. I look over my shoulder, and Joe would flash a charming smile, Brent would grin, Spencer would wave, but I turn my gaze away and feel their eyes on my hunched back. Their widening irises feel heavy in my heart.

The beggar is still by the door, looking confused that the girls are staring our way. “You must be famous,” I remark and walk back into the mess we have made.


	2. A Machine for the Music Industry

Jac is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn’t brushed her hair, and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would have melted already.

“I’ll be so bored,” she exclaims.

“I’ll be bored too,” I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the suitcase.

“You’ll be on tour. I’ve been on tour, I _know_ what it’s like,” she insists. But this won’t be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on stage from the midst of the crowd. And it won’t be the ones she has made cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we’re famous. 

“Get dressed,” I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of anything that is likely to go off while I’m away. I stop at the bedroom doorway after I’m done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above her knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.

Jac grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off, getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Jac sighs and chews on her bottom lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my chest and wraps her tiny arms around my middle. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to? My chin leans on the top of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my better half says something.

“Huh?”

“Who’s Jackie?” she repeats. “Brent said that you named the tour, so who is she?”

“Brent said?” I repeat sceptically. “When did you hang out with him?” She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in our brains where we don’t share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at his wristwatch. I sigh. “Gotta go, babe.”

Jac lets go of me. “I love you.”

“You too,” I say easily. Too easily.

She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step isn’t any heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks, “Was that your wife?”

I suppress a spontaneous laugh. “No.”

“Fiancée?”

“My girlfriend. Occasionally.”

“Oh.” The man sounds disapproving, but he’s an old guy, almost fifty. God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes, growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock and roll. God forbid us.

After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Jac’s face. She is most likely realising the same about me.

* * *

We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Joe is organising a huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in even worse shape than I will be.

Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus. It’s not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It’s brand new and looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly stop. I figure it’s where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Pete is standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

“Hey.”

Pete swirls around, lifting huge sunglasses up to his forehead. His smirk spreads from his eyes to his mouth and cheeks. “Hey! Just polishing her up,” he says adoringly, casting the bus a look he would give to his lover. “Groovy, ain’t she? Come on, have a look,” Pete urges. I lift a sceptical eyebrow. He is being far too nice to me when we both know that the dislike is mutual. “Come on! I’ve got a surprise for you in the back.”

“A one-way ticket to Hawaii?” I ask and fake a laugh, and Pete imitates me.

“So funny, Ryan. Ah, you’re a kidder.” He wipes his eyes.

I get on the bus, passing the empty driver’s seat. Pete gets on the bus after me, and I can feel the slight tilt of our weight. I push a thin curtain aside that can give the driver privacy when driving, and am instantly in a lounge area. Pete eagerly shows me around, explaining how we can hang out on the couches or on the two armchairs with the table in between, perfect for card games to kill time or a nocturnal snack in between cities. The couches and chairs are yellow with orange polka dots while the walls are light green. Needless to say Pete had a hand in this. Nonetheless, I make approving sounds. A couch on a bus? Insane. We only had normal seats the last time.

I pass the tiny kitchen counter and fridge, which is small but should fit a few beers. That’s the latest technology right there. So far, the bus is liveable and downright luxurious. The bathroom is microscopic, but the toilet flushes, which is more than I can say about our last bus. We have clearly hit it big time - everything about the new, modern bus says so.

“The guys decided their bunks yet?” I ask.

“They haven’t checked out the bus. They said they would, but...” Pete looks like a kid whose friends didn’t show up for his birthday party after all.

“Oh, yeah. Joe is having a party in his room. I imagine he has ordered alcohol for over a hundred bucks by now,” I mutter, and Pete goes two shades paler. “Let’s hope they don’t trash the place,” I add with a smile that is practically frolicking in Pete’s sudden anguish. He obsesses over every cent. Cheap bastard.

I open the door to the bunks and stop in my inspection. A young man with dark brown hair stands in the narrow pathway. He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder and says, “Hey.” He has an almost too handsome face with full, beautifully shaped lips that are slightly too big for him, a nose that dips half an inch too low, but neither feature do nothing except enhance the grace of his face. I’ve never seen him before. He is roughly my age and slightly shorter than me. I can’t decide if he is buff or not: he has strong arms and shoulders, but his overall impression is tiny with a narrow waist. His tight clothes only support the impression as the shirt stops two inches before his jeans start. I don’t get the latest fashion at all.

The man draws shut a bunk curtain and wipes his hands to the back of his tight jeans.

“Hey,” I return, the question of ‘and you are?’ clear in my tone.

“Ryan, this is Brendon, Simon’s replacement. Brendon, this is Ryan,” Pete explains, and yeah, figures. This is William’s friend. I conclude that he is too skinny. Not as skinny as me, but I am not expected to lift and shift and push and pull hardcases filled with amps, drums and guitars all day long.

“The singer, right?” Brendon clarifies and offers his hand. I take it.

“It’s my band,” I shrug, regardless of what Joe might say. It’s my music. Don’t try taking it from me.

“Groovy,” Brendon nods, eyeing between me and Pete. “Well, I’m late for the party,” he says, a cue stating that he wants to leave. We give him space, and he squeezes past.

I look after him, feeling just the tiniest bit confused. Brendon looks nothing like any roadie I’ve worked with or seen before. Where was the beard? The rock ‘n roll hair? I don’t go for “the bigger, the better” hair policy that is so popular in our scene, but my brown locks still speak of a level of carefree hippie descent. Brendon’s hair was neatly cut.

Pete walks to the door at the back of the bunks while I add things up. Eight bunks, four on each side. Four band members, one tour manager, four roadies. There isn’t enough room.

“How exactly –” 

Pete opens the backdoor, revealing what is best described as a nest of sorts. I snake past Pete to the small back lounge, taking one step from the door before standing by the side of a double bed that is surrounded by the bus on three sides. It looks cosy with huge, red pillows and blankets, and Pete puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “No bunk for you. You sleep right here in the queen-sized bed.”

Because I am not like the rest of the band. I’m the lead: I’m special. I’m the stubborn star Pete has been trying to polish.

He is trying to make me forgive him for our fifty-five show tour. And what’s worse, it’s working. I hate bunks. He knows that, the sly bastard. In bunks, I toss and turn and bang my head to the ceiling, wake up covered in bruises.

“It’s almost like having your own room,” Pete enthuses. “A groovy, big bed, you get all the privacy you want and a good night’s rest. Not like Jac will be here, right?”

“Yeah.”

I had actually worried about how I’d get laid on this bus. Now I know.

“The other guys will be furious that I’ve got my own room,” I point out even as I salivate over the thought. Maybe I deserve this. I have far more pressure on me than the other guys. They don’t get what it’s like.

“I’ll talk to them. You just leave it up to me,” Pete says in his I-can-fix-anything voice. “You’ll even enjoy this tour. You’ll see.”

He’s even more disillusioned than he has been.

* * *

Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. The show is not quite sold out. Pete says it was a close call.

Our support band is some Midwestern promise for the music world. I follow them from the side of the stage for a while as the energetic singer takes a hold of the microphone and shouts, “Fuck the war!” The crowd roars like his words are new when they are not. The war has been over for a few years, a handful of troops still lingering in Vietnam. We need something new to fight for, but no one seems to be coming up with anything. I am sure most of the roaring is from the enthusiasm that the singer said the F word.

Music and politics. It’s not a good idea to mix them.

“What do you think?” Zack asks from beside me, and I shrug.

“A bit pretentious. A bit insincere.”

“About the crowd,” he laughs, and I force my eyes to the right where I see a row of people, then another, another, and then the venue opens up like the open sea, endlessly fading into black. I make my way back to the dressing room, where the rest of the band is getting ready. Joe is my opposite in many ways, and over the five years that we have been in this band, Joe has made friends in every state of this country. He surrounds himself with people, and he invites these admirers backstage in every city, so even now the dressing room is full of people I don’t know with backstage stickers glued to their shirts and jeans.

“Pete,” I call out, and Pete reads my expression easily enough. He looks torn between pleasing me and pleasing Joe, but two minutes later, the room is void of freeloaders. Joe doesn’t mind for once as he too wants to get ready to go on. It’s the first night. That counts. He, Brent and Spencer are all hungover.

I didn’t drink last night, but I’ll drink now. I block out the voices, laughter, excitement and nervousness, take sips from the wine bottle and stare at our setlist. Maybe the order isn’t good. Maybe we got it all wrong.

“Ryan.”

“Huh?” I look up and see Brendon. He is holding out his hand with an unsure smile. I blink. His smile.

“I need the setlist?”

“Right.” I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as William nearly squeals, “Can I please, _please_ be the one-two-three guy?”

Spencer is putting on his stage clothes: jeans, t-shirt, vest and bandanna. Joe is always the most extravagant, and tonight, he is wearing a one-piece with a V-cut so deep it almost goes to his belly button. He should shave his chest hair, at least for my sake. Brent’s going on in a suit. Pete is calling out encouragements, and back in the hall, the crowd is cheering and chanting loud enough for us to hear. My breathing is shallow as I hear the increased pace of my heartbeat soaring in my ears. One down, fifty-four to go. After tonight, it’ll be one down.

William comes back, a big grin on his face. “Five minutes! I’ll keep an eye on you from the back!” William is taking care of the merch, and he gives us a thumbs up and leaves.

I keep studying the backstage pass I have hanging around my neck, examining the font spelling out _The Followers_ and _Jackie, Me and This Lady_ , brushing my thumb over ‘all access’. Pete keeps telling us not to lose these. It’s a crown of sorts, a shield and a sword, but somehow, it still feels like an iron chain around my neck, pulling me down.

Pete hurdles us together for a big pep talk. I don’t listen, but I put my hand in the middle with the others. Then something weird happens: I slide to the back of my head. My eyes become a cinema screen, and I take a comfortable seat in the back of my brain, tilt the chair backwards, reach for the popcorn. On the screen is a corridor, then another, a flight of stairs, Spencer’s back, sudden lights. The side of a stage, screaming fans in the distance, a halt, Andy and Zack are smiling at the screen, encouraging, and the ear-wrenching noise is muffled as the halt is over, and the camera flips down, shows my shoes walking, which is funny because I am in my brain cinema and not walking on stage. That is not me; that’s somebody else. That’s a machine for the music industry.

A microphone. A funny metal ball with a thousand little holes, and it comes closer to the screen. A voice says, “Good evening, St. Paul,” speaking into it. A girl in the front row stretches out both arms and screams, “RYAN!”

Instantaneously, I am pulled from my chair and onto the floor of my brain, and I struggle in vain, kick the air and scream as invisible hands take a hold of my collar and drag and drag and drag me, throw me at the cinema screen, and I fall right through.

I am on stage in front of thousands, people stretching far to my right and far to my left, and right ahead of me until they get eaten by the dark. The lights are hot. I’ve got a guitar around me, providing a very thin layer of protection. How did I get here?

Spencer yells, “One-two, one-two-three-four –”

Play. Just play. You know how to.

I let myself slip into automatic, managing to do it out of sheer horror. After the first two songs, it becomes nothing more than a painful, sickening throb in my guts.

I resent the audience.

Luckily, we all have certain roles on stage that we are known for. Joe is the entertainer who jumps with his guitar, throws it up into the air, entertains, spins around like mad. I’m famous for my lack of interaction, for being stoic and solemn. The reviews say it’s my thing. Brent is from between the two of us, rocking out with Joe sometimes, coming up to me to share the mic and shout into it. Spencer can hide behind his drum kit. I should’ve been a drummer.

I close my eyes and pretend that the audience is not there, turn around to play guitar to Spencer, who bangs and bangs, breaks two drumsticks, beats the shit out of the drums like his life depends on it. Knowing him, he probably believes it does. Sweat rolls down from under his red bandanna, hair stuck to his neck. Eventually, he crashes the cymbals and the song is at an end.

Six thousand people behind me roar. I walk to the drum kit, take a glass of water from the stage floor and pour its contents over my head. It soaks my shirt, and Spencer grins at me. The water lands on the guitar too. Sadly, I do not get electrocuted.

“Ryan.”

I look to my side and focus on Andy. His glasses are slipping down his nose as he sweats in the heat of the stage lights. He is offering me a guitar with a hand that is attached to a heavily tattooed arm, and I quickly walk back to the mic, step on two effect pedals to turn them off and unplug my Telecaster before giving it to him. I plug in the new one, check the tuning, and it’s just me and the instrument as I make sure everything is ready. The audience keeps clapping, as if beckoning me to play, to do something exciting, give them their money’s worth.

I strum the start of the next song. They recognise it, and the girls scream while the boys shout.

Brent is at the piano, and I can hear my guitar through the amps, the way it buzzes like a live wire, angry and demanding.

At the side of the stage, the crew is watching. Pete has his arms crossed, his shoulders tense. He is waiting for me to break down or storm off. Andy is nodding his head to the beat while Zack is eyeing the audience. I know William is somewhere around, making sure the venue workers are selling the merch at the right prices.

The new guy, Brendon, is reading a book.

My eyes fix on him.

It’s the first night on tour. We are the most exciting band around, all these fans paid to see us. We are famous. And there’s this guy, a guy who is getting _paid_ to stand there, the best place to watch us perform, and... he is reading a book.

It takes me half of the song to remember what the hell I’m even supposed to be doing.

* * *

I wait around outside the dressing room, nodding as the crew heads back for the bus. The backstage area is full of people, all saying hi to me as they walk past with slightly hopeful smiles like I’ll indicate I want to start a conversation. I don’t.

“I just gotta,” I mumble and wave my hands around, and no one stops to ask me, “What?” One brush off from me is enough. Pete simply reminds me we have to leave in twenty and warns me of the aficionados waiting outside the venue. Zack offers to play the bodyguard since Pete is convinced they want me to place my hand above their heads and bless them, or quite possibly impregnate them. I can take on a few fans. I think.

My calloused fingertips ache from the show. I can see bits of black on them from the dirty strings. I should have practised more to prepare myself for the tour, but we hardly did more work than the crew practice. We didn’t exactly want to lock ourselves up in a small room with each other.

I hear movement in the dressing room, and I take in a breath and go in. Brendon is by the dressing tables and he looks up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. He’s just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist.

“Hey,” I say, and he turns around, tightening the towel with uncertain movements.

“Hi. Uh, I thought –”

“I was wondering,” I begin, not understanding why he is acting flustered when he doesn’t even know what I am going to say. “What were you reading?”

Brendon blinks at me. “Sorry?”

“Tonight. During the show.” A slight red emerges on Brendon’s cheeks as he opens his mouth without anything coming out. “I saw you,” I cut in.

“Hemingway. _The Sun Also Rises_.”

I lost to an alcoholic wannabe fisherman who spent his golden years drinking piña coladas in Key West before shooting his brains out. “What’s the book about?” I ask.

Brendon shrugs. “This American guy who lives in Paris. He loves a woman, who doesn’t love him back. Or, well, I think she loves him. She just doesn’t love him enough to care, and he knows that.”

For a moment, I think he is describing a very saccharine and romanticised version of my current relationship before my own ridiculousness dawns on me. Want of love is not love.

“You know you’re supposed to be paying attention during the shows. A mic stand might fall over, a string might break,” I list, and don’t mention how, tragic love story or not, I should still be more captivating than a dusty book. They said we had an amazing first show. I was there, I don’t know, but that’s what they said.

Brendon mutters, “Sorry.”

I look around the dressing room. It’s a mess now that we’ve had our way with it. Empty beer bottles, bits of food, one emotionally fucked up front man and a roadie who obviously can’t be bothered.

“You ever been a roadie before?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Used to work at a venue back in San Francisco. This is my first tour, though.”

“You live in San Francisco?” I ask, and he nods. I let my shoulders drop as I remember that we both have to make bus call. “Just pay a bit more attention, alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Come on, then. Don’t wanna be late.”

Brendon searches for his clothes, and I turn around as he gets dressed. He checks the dressing room one last time to make sure no one has forgotten anything, and a venue worker shows us to the back door. The place is too big for us to be able to figure it out for ourselves.

There are fans waiting outside, just like Pete said there would be. I feel myself tensing up at the sight of them. There are far more than I had expected. I thought there’d be a couple like we had on our last tour, but there must be nearly twenty of them. Brendon and I both freeze, and my eyes frantically look around for an escape that isn’t there.

“Ryan!”

I will never get used to random people knowing my name. Twenty people let out an excited squeal and rush over, a mob suddenly surrounding us. The one who gets to me first, the ginger haired one, says, “Can I shake your hand?”

“Sure.”

“That was a beautiful show. That was –”

“The new album is amazing –”

“Your music is –”

“Thanks, that’s nice. Thanks for coming out. Yeah.” I speak to everyone and no one at all. They are all speaking at the same time. One girl stands in the back and stares at me with watery eyes. Someone touches my shoulder, someone my wrist, coming in closer and closer. I try to take steps back to no avail. Someone is snapping pictures of me.

“I’m coming to the next four shows! Would’ve come to more, but I ran out of money.”

I laugh uncomfortably and sign his copy of Boneless, where Brent, Joe and Spencer’s autographs already are, smearing the cover art of the LP. Jac designed it. She’s an artist and perfectly unknown, not counting the fame she gets for fucking me. She is an artist, and she has her privacy, and she wants to get rid of it so badly. Stupid woman.

I mutter, “It’s gonna be the same show tomorrow night. You’ll be wasting your time...”

“Hardly!” he enthuses.

I can’t come up with anything to say. “What do you think of St. Paul?” someone shouts.

Nothing. I’ve seen the tour bus, one diner, one hotel room. I think nothing of it.

“It’s, yeah... a lovely place.”

A girl smiles appreciatively, her eyes shining. They are pushing and shoving each other, and I feel more terrified by the second.

“Ryan, man, can I just ask –”

A hand lands on my shoulder, but it’s not trying to devour me, it’s trying to balance me. “I’m really sorry, but we have to get going now,” Brendon says firmly in a ‘don’t mess with me’ voice that sounds like it belongs to a man much taller and larger and more threatening than him.

“What? No, wait –”

“Step back, please!” Brendon orders. I shrug as an apology without being sorry at all, and Brendon firmly pulls me with him. He starts to walk behind me, hand on my shoulder and leading me away. The fans follow us. “Bye, Ryan!” “See you tomorrow night!” “Love you, man!” “I love you!” Brendon has to ask them to step back a second time as we take hurried steps and I hang my head, clearly thinking with an ostrich’s logic that hiding my head will make the rest of me vanish too. Brendon lets go when the distance is safe enough.

I mutter, “Thanks.”

“No probs,” Brendon says as we reach the bus. The thought of an actual bodyguard seems exaggerated, but with every day, I slowly realise how huge our band has become. I should let Zack play the angry dog with a tendency to bite. “Shit, those guys were insane. Looked at you like God.”

“I am God. To them,” I amend.

Brendon shakes his head in disbelief, but I don’t share his shock. I don’t want him to see that, for a second there, I got damn scared.

“Are you always that awkward with your fans?”

“I wasn’t _awkward_ ,” I protest, now fumbling my pockets for a cigarette. I offer him one, but he refuses. After one puff, I nod, “Yeah, I am.”

Brendon laughs. “Figured.”

We get on the bus, and I give St. Paul one last look over my shoulder. The fans are still lingering around, perhaps praying that I will come back to their temple to be worshipped.

* * *

“Another beer, come on!”

Andy pushes the fridge door shut with his leg, and the guys cheer as his arms are filled with more bottles. The entire front lounge smells of weed as we’re crossing the state line between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I should be sleeping, but it’s the first night. You always stay up on the first night of tour. It’s essential for the crew to bond so that we can have a laugh for the first three weeks. After that start the fights and the moans about missing everyone back home. Someone threatens to quit until Pete manages to intervene. Maybe someone will actually quit this time.

Joe, the insane fucker, is driving. We don’t have to drive when there are four roadies to take shifts for us, but he insisted on it. Something about him, night-time radio and the open road. I’m surprised by his act of kindness. He firmly said that he was too big a star to drive the bus or van anymore, so I take his driving to mean that he’s fucking furious about something and thinks it’s best not to be in the same room with anyone. The rest of us have crammed into the lounge area, which manages to seat the eight of us and even leaves room for more. Pete is going through paperwork by the table, having difficulty stepping out of his managerial role. He only looks up to make sure we’re not making a mess.

Brendon has his Hemingway on his lap, but he’s not reading it. Maybe he is waiting for the conversation to get boring.

“A toast!” Brent insists, and we all lift our drinks. “To the amazing, fabulous, fucking rocking _Jackie, Me, And This Lady_ ’74 tour!” The guys cheer and drink up. I take a sip of my beer, feel the cool glass against my lips.

“Ry,” Zack asks, and I hum and stare at the mouth of my beer bottle. “Why didn’t you bring Jac on tour, man?”

I snort. “As if I would when I know you want to put it in her.” The guys laugh, even Zack. He knows how to laugh at the truth when I present it to him. “Jac is coming to New York,” I add in.

Spencer joins in with, “Jac and Zack, sitting in a tree...”

“Sounds cute,” Andy grins. “Valerie was pissed as fuck that I’d be gone for most of the summer. She’s convinced I’m gonna bang a groupie. What groupie? Where? I’m not even in the fucking band!”

Spencer grins. “We were in Minnesota, man. The ladies will come a-rollin’ when we find some that meet our standards.” Spencer speaks like an expert though he never fucks any of them. He stopped when he met that girl. Here’s hoping he will start again. It’ll do him good.

“Yeah, they’ll all probably look a lot like Jac,” Zack retorts, and I give him the middle finger with a sweet smile as the guys laugh.

Brent, of all people, says, “Come on, don’t talk about Jac like that.” I appreciate the support of not having my whatever-she-is labelled as cheap, even if Brent is the biggest chauvinist in the room, which is exactly what Jac hates about most men, myself probably included. Brent asks, “What about you?” He is addressing Brendon. “You got a girl back home?”

“I’m single,” Brendon says, speaking for the first time in a while.

Andy nods approvingly. “Good, that’s –”

“And I’m gay.”

Pete’s head lifts from the paperwork in the blink of an eye. The chattering dies.

Brendon’s lips press together as he scratches the side of his head. “I don’t think William told you guys about that.”

Brent shakes his head a little. I turn to William, who, if someone had to be, should be the gay guy in the room. William wears his heart on his sleeve, is easy to get upset, is easy to forgive. He often acts like it’s the end of the world when it’s just a delay with our arrival to a venue, the drama swelling up to phenomenal levels. He talks with his hands, obsesses over his hair, and despite all this, he at least claims to be a straight man. And he never told us that the guy he recommended was a fag. He never said a word of it.

“Well,” William begins to fill the silence, “it’s not like it makes a difference.” Pause. “Right?”

I quickly try to figure out what the odds of getting raped by Brendon are. I could take him on.

“No, yeah.” “Of course not.” “Right, sure.” “Yeah.” Our voices are mumbled, seeking to be more liberal than truly accepting. William is looking at us all with big eyes, and I can almost see his left eyebrow twitching as he slowly works himself up to a scene. So Brendon fucks guys. Some guys do.

Brendon looks me straight in the eye, and I look away.

Pete can sense that William is about to freak out and asks, “So, Brendon. No boyfriend or... or anything or?”

I am relatively sure there is too many “or”s in the question. William leans back and lets out a breath. Thank god we managed to stop that one.

“I’m young, I’m cute, and I live in the Castro. I’m not looking for anything, definitely not to settle down.”

“Very sensible,” Andy grants him. It takes a group effort from Spencer and Zack to direct the conversation elsewhere. Brendon and William go to their bunks shortly after, William with the excuse that he needs to take a nap before he starts driving. He probably wants to calm down or vent to Brendon in private. Joe pulls up to a rest stop, and most of us scramble out of the bus and into the night air.

“You don’t think he and William...?” Brent trails off as we sit in the all-night diner. I sit in my own booth and scribble down in my notebook. The waitress comes around, but I decline the coffee with a shake of my head. I plan to retire to my glorious nest once we get back on the bus. Joe glances at me with a dirty look, and now I know it’s me he is avoiding. Great, what did I do this time?

Zack says, “I hope not.”

I don’t look up but listen in with a half-interested ear. I doubt they are fucking. I’ve seen William with women. They both live in San Francisco, and Brendon said something about having worked in a venue. William has worked at the Winterland Ballroom. It’s the only connection I can come up with.

Joe asks, “So he actually said that he’s cute? Jeez.”

“I can see it,” Spencer says, and I look up to watch the back of his head. “I can see why gay guys would find him attractive. He’s pretty feminine physically, his ass is like a girl’s, then hips and all.”

Brent snorts. “Someone’s been watching.”

“I just made an observation,” Spencer says calmly, and I recognise the tone as one that leaves no room for suggestive remarks. It’s not really fair to be talking about Brendon behind his back like this, but the news is far too juicy to just pass.

“Shit,” Joe gasps suddenly. “Does this mean I have to stop walking around the bus in my underwear?”

The guys start laughing, and I take my pen and notebook and head back out as my friends argue which one of them Brendon will try to molest.

“Yo, Ry,” Joe calls out. “Is your highness going back to his exclusive tour bus boudoir?”

I fucking told Pete it wouldn’t go down well. I told him. But Joe doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well, have fun now,” Joe says and sips his coffee, asking Spencer something as they all proceed to ignore me.

The night is not as warm as it would be back home, but the stars seem much brighter. The June wind blows in the pine trees, and a car drives down the road, headlights appearing and disappearing from sight. It’s quiet and I’m alone, something I know won’t happen a lot for the rest of the summer.

I make my way back to the bus, and for a moment, I let myself be the random guy with a guitar who wrote a few songs. It’s what I ultimately am.

Brendon emerges from the bus bathroom wearing a faded white t-shirt and grey boxers with a toothbrush in his mouth just as I head for the bunks. I say a simple, “Goodnight,” and he waves his hand, hair sticking out in random places.

I get why he was flustered when I barged in while he was barely dressed. I thought nothing of it, but if he’s a homosexual, he would perceive the situation entirely differently.

It’s a strange thought.


	3. The Conscience

In Chicago, we are playing three sold out shows in a row so we temporarily move into a hotel. I have an interview on our first day there, and Pete barges into my room at eight-thirty, kicks me out of bed and sends home one of the girls that was lingering outside the hotel last night, waiting for us to arrive. I head for a shower to save myself from having to say goodbye to her. I don’t feel guilty, not exactly, but maybe I just expected myself to resist temptation for a week at least.

An hour later, and I am dressed and fed, and Pete is leading me down the hotel stairs. I say, “I don’t want to.” 

“You have to,” Pete retorts. “They want to put you on the cover.”

“See, we’ve already been on the cover of The Rolling Stone, so it all just feels pretty anticlimactic after that. Besides, I think Creem is a shit magazine for pretentious assholes.”

“Right up your street then.”

“Fuck you.”

We walk down a hotel corridor to a small conference room or another. Pete has a hand on my back, pushing. If you asked him, he’d say guiding.

“They gave the new record a fucking amazing review, so you better go in there and talk about your music. We’ve got a photo shoot at noon. A car is picking us up. Oh, and did I tell you _Boneless_ is number one on Billboard’s LPs and Tapes chart for the third week running?”

“Yay,” I mutter unenthusiastically. It makes me uncomfortable to know that many people are now listening to my darkest secrets. I asked for it, didn’t I?

The interviewer is a guy in his late thirties. He is wearing sunglasses inside. Idiot. He has a wooden necklace tied twice around his neck, undoubtedly a souvenir of his hippie times. What does a former tambourine banging hippie know about rock?

A lot, as it turns out.

“How do you perceive the accessibility of your music?” he asks three minutes in. The tape recorder is on the table between us, and I can see the two small reels rolling beneath the see-through cover. He extends the tiny microphone towards me. I take a moment to pour myself a glass of water, take a sip, swallow it down. The interviewer keeps the bottom end of a pen between his lips, a curious look on his face.

“I don’t think it’s inaccessible if you look at the number of copies we’ve sold,” I eventually say. He hums and looks at me, silently signalling for me to continue. I stare back.

He starts again. “The opening track of the new record is a ten-minute song that starts loudly and ends quietly, which is the reversal of the usual rock song. What motivated you toward this approach? Are you, perhaps, seeking to surprise the listener?”

“No. It just sounded good to me.”

I lace my fingers together on the table. I can see the interviewer getting more and more frustrated by the second. They always hate me, squeeze me like a lemon to try and get every drop out, but I’m as dry as the desert. I already poured it all out. Listen to the damn music, will you?

“The lyrics, which you write, are often cryptic and obscure. For instance, the song _Less Than Graceful_ –”

“That song is about a ten-year-old girl who sees her father get shot,” I supply seamlessly before realising I made a mistake by cutting short the interviewer. They hate that. Pete will strangle me, and I will let him, happy that this is finally over. I take in a deep breath and decide to indulge this fucker. “I don’t make music for it to be accessible, and neither do I think my song choices necessarily are something listeners can relate to. I’ve never been a ten-year-old girl, and my father has never been shot in front of me either. But listeners can sympathise with stories and allegories that, to me, say something about the world in which I live in. The music is loud, angry, sad, and it’s quiet too at times, and that’s how it should be: alive. And I believe that our fans can feel that when they put on a Followers record. They feel alive. And that’s what makes the music accessible to anyone, regardless of age, sex or gender.”

The interviewer stares at me without blinking, then exhales a dreamy, “Exactly so.”

I can hear bells ringing in my head. _And the winner is –_

The interviewer licks his lips. “You are currently on tour, yes? And the tour is called _Jackie, Me and This Lady_. Are these real people?” I nod. “Is Jackie referring to the sister of drummer Spencer Smith?”

“No.”

“Your long-term girlfriend whose name I believe is Jac?”

“Is eleven months long-term?” I ask tiredly, adding, “Don’t put that in the interview, my private life is off limits. But the answer is no, it is not named after her.”

He nods slowly, eyes shining with interest. “Then who is Jackie?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” I inform him, falling from grace as quickly as I rose to it.

* * *

The photo shoot takes place in downtown Chicago. The interviewer tags along, asking the other band members questions, mainly about me. If it ends up being another Ryan Ross article instead of a Followers one, the dirty looks Joe will give me will most likely exceed all the resentment felt during the Hundred Years’ War. That war, in reality, lasted a hundred and sixteen years, but fuck me if I know who fought it or when.

“It was between the English and the French from the fourteenth to the fifteenth centuries,” Brendon informs the car. He lost the card game between the roadies last night and got assigned to be our slave during the photo shoot. He might know a bit of history, but he certainly can’t play cards.

“You ever gone to college?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he laughs, looking down to his shoes in embarrassment. “My mother was – I, uh,” he stops to clear his throat. “I just know.” He looks out of the window.

It’s a dangerous thing to ask someone of their family because they just might tell you the truth, so I focus on staring out of the window while the interviewer asks Spencer what it’s like to be the best drummer alive. Usually, it’s relatively safe to ask someone to share, but what if that person decides to be honest? And there certainly is nothing more dangerous than honesty.

If I gave an honest answer about my family, it would go something like this: an alcoholic, asshole father who finally lost the last bit of his common sense in Vietnam. He was over there only for a few months back in ’64 before getting wounded and shipped back. He beat me up a few times. One time, I punched back, and we haven’t touched each other since. Not a hug, not a handshake. He still lives in Las Vegas, and he will die in Las Vegas. My mother left way before any of it happened. She must have seen what an asshole he was. Didn’t care to take me with her. I met her on tour in support of our second album. She said she was proud; I told her she might as well be dead to me. I have half-siblings somewhere. She didn’t abandon those.

I make a point of not asking Brendon about his background, though for some reason I’d like to know. But no, silence is better. I’ve known Zack for years, and I don’t know a damn thing about him either. Some of the best friendships are built on mutual indifference.

The photo shoot drags on painfully after way too much time was spent on the makeup artists doing our faces and hair.

“Ryan, can you move a bit to the left?” the photographer asks, positioning me in front of the other guys. I’m wearing another hat Jac designed, and the tips of my hair curl around the sides of my face. I need a haircut. Brendon is watching on, and he has been doing his job flawlessly since the first night. The guys avoid him, though. I try not to care. No one has appointed me as the defender of the underdog, as the conscience of homophobic musicians. I will stay clear of it, even if I don’t quite share their fear of Brendon. He really seems harmless enough.

“Ryan, can you lift your head a bit? Brent, a bit more sideways. Good, good. Joe, your hair is – That’s much better, thank you.” Snap, snap. “Okay, Ryan you stay in the middle. Guys, if you just take two steps backwards...” Snap, snap. “Think rock ‘n roll! Think attitude!” Snap. Flash. “We’re done! Thank you!” The photographer and his assistants clap.

Brendon holds the hand towel as I wash my face. The makeup that hid the imperfections of my face comes off, revealing changes in tone, uneven skin. A few groupies have told me I’m beautiful. I don’t see it myself. A few bangs hang in front of my face, and I prefer it like that, with just a bit of shelter. “Thanks,” I mutter as I take the towel Brendon offers.

Brendon leans against the bathroom doorway, his tight t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing his left hip. If he hadn’t told us he was gay, I would definitely be figuring it out by now.

“Is it gonna be like this the entire tour?” he asks, and I lift an eyebrow at him. “The media. That radio show you did in Milwaukee, now this, and I know you have some sort of a record shop appearance in Cleveland. I thought tours were about, you know. Playing shows.”

“Gotta promote the new album,” I say and straighten up. “I’d rather not, trust me. I think this is all bullshit. It’s politics, sales and profit. This is not goddamn music.”

Brendon chuckles. “Lucky that all labels rejected me.”

“You play?” I ask, mildly surprised. Of course he plays, but writing music is another thing entirely.

He shrugs. “Some. But I don’t want a profession out of it. The only musicians in this world without complete artistic freedom are the ones with a record deal.”

I lower the towel from my face, feeling a burning stone set in my stomach at his words.

“You missed some here,” he helps, motioning at his left eyebrow. I wipe my face more and hope to god I come out clean. I feel like he is waiting for me to speak, but I’m not the most sociable person I know. It’s not that I’m anti-social. It’s just that I prefer silence to my own voice. Most of the time, I just cannot be bothered with people when my own thoughts entertain me more than the mindless nonsense of a fellow man.

“Look,” I say anyway and against my better judgement. I was firmly planning not to get involved. “I’m sorry if the guys have been distant. William aside,” I add. “We’ve just not toured with a... well, you know. Before.”

“A fag?” he suggests.

“Yeah. A fag.”

“I was expecting it. Hoping for something different, sure, but I had prepared myself. I know most musicians just think about pussy, anyway. Except you, of course. I think you think about other things too.”

“I do, but I’m pretty sure pussy is in the top five.”

Brendon laughs, revealing all of his white teeth as his lips stretch wide. I realise that I feel like I’m speaking as a hermit to another. “I’m just saying that we’re in this for three months. So, you know. If you want to talk some time.” Emphasis on _you_ because I don’t plan to do much talking myself. 

I pass him back the towel. He seems genuinely touched. “Gracias.”

“You got some Latino blood in you?” I ask.

“Hawaiian,” he corrects, and that explains the hint of exoticness in his appearance. “I just got this thing, uh. I never want to say, you know, gracias in English. It’s not that I don’t even want to, I just... don’t? I know how to say it in a bunch of languages, so, yeah. I always say it in one of those. It’s just a thing.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It’s not that weird. Like, some people don’t want to step on the cracks, you know? And fair enough, I’m one of those people, but I also have other things.”

“Double fucked up.”

“Danke.”

I laugh as Pete comes to the door, looking between Brendon and me. “Wow, Ry, you’re smiling. First time this week, am I right? Come on, let’s get going. Soundcheck in two hours, we need to get to the venue.”

“Sure,” I mutter, giving another suspicious look at Brendon, who only grins at me.

Fans are lining up outside the Arie Crown Theater when the car passes the main entrance. The venue’s security men show us through the back door, and I feel myself relax. Here, I know what’s expected of me, even if I still can’t deal with the audiences. I was near a panic attack last night, Spencer pulling me into a backstage toilet to tell me to relax. But I would have been happy with mediocre success. A record deal, small tours, a firm hold of myself. It’s what I wanted, what I probably had somewhere between the first and second album, but I missed it. I didn’t notice. So now I’ve got my face on magazine covers, fans screaming and passing out at the sight of me, and I want to put this car on reverse and go right back to that moment I missed, that moment in a club in Buffalo where I noticed a few guys of the three hundred headed audience singing along, and my heart stopped at the achievement. But it’s too late for that, and I’m gone.

“Listen to them,” Brent says when the four of us are in the dressing room, sitting around and prepping ourselves for our first Chicago show in two years. I lift my head and nod tiredly. The audience is chanting our name. We’re not going on for another hour, so we’re killing time drinking and trying to act professional.

Joe’s not talking to me again. It’s because of the photo shoot where they made it clear I’m the star. I’m sorry, but this band can’t have two front men. I need friends right now, not enemies, and if he can’t get over himself, then fuck him too.

Someone knocks on the door before opening it and a friendly looking man around my age steps inside. He’s got a kind, readable face, and he looks like he just woke up with a sleepy grin on his lips, his mouth surrounded by scruffy stubble that matches the brown hair that frames his face and curls at the tips. I think he works for the venue. “Hey,” he states simply, and the guys lift their hands like they know the guy.

“Break a leg, man,” Joe says. In his case, he probably means it literally.

“Thanks. We’re going on in ten.” 

“You’re in the support band?” I clarify. 

“Yup, have been for the past two nights and will be for the next... five shows, I think?” he shrugs. “We met yesterday.” 

“Oh.” I remember being introduced to the support, but I no longer remember faces or names. I don’t even remember what they are called, I just remember not digging them that much. He just smiles like he doesn’t mind that I have failed to acknowledge his existence. He’s shorter than me but broader chested and shouldered with actual muscle where I have bones.

“I was looking for Brendon,” he explains. We shake our heads. I’m not sure where anyone is. The guy’s smile falters. “Well, tell him that Jon came looking for him, yeah? And that Tom and I are staying in Room 317.”

“You got it,” Spencer promises, and the guy, presumably Jon, leaves.

Brent snorts. “Well, I’d never believe it just looking at him.”

“Believe what?” I ask distractedly, turning up the volume on the TV as I sip the vodka straight from the bottle. So far, not once have I been able to go on stage sober. The news is on, Nixon is giving a speech.

“That Jon prefers the back entrance.”

I laugh along with Brent. Spencer gets up and shakes his head, going to the dressing tables and wrapping a bandanna around his head, blue this time. “Earlier, I went for a cup of coffee with Jon’s girlfriend because they were sound-checking, and we were both thirsty and idle. A nice place just two blocks from here. You don’t have to be a homo to hang out with a homo.”

“Jon is banging the queer roadie while Spencer puts a move on his girlfriend,” Joe grins. “Smooth.”

“I can’t believe I’m physically the youngest and mentally the oldest around here,” Spencer mutters as he flops back down on an armchair, taking drumsticks and twirling them in his fingers. I keep my eyes on him, and Spencer shifts restlessly, giving me an uncomfortable look. I say nothing, though I could. The guys begin to argue about who has Jon’s sexuality figured out, and fuck, it hasn’t even been a week, but somehow, we’ve reached the point of useless bickering. I hear the support band start playing, the roar of the crowd as something finally happens on stage.

I get up and go looking for Andy because I want my Gibson restrung before we go on. I am greeted by people I don’t recognise, strangers patting my shoulders with, “How’s it going, man?” Fine. I’m always fine.

“Andy, hey,” I say, having finally found our guitar and bass technician. He and Brendon are backstage, talking loudly over the music and nodding in agreement. After I’ve made my request, Andy goes hunting for my Gibson dutifully, and Brendon heads for the side of the stage. I follow and yell, “Jon says hi!”

“He does? Cool,” Brendon smiles, now taking a spot where we can watch the band on stage. Jon appears to be the bassist. He’s been on for ten minutes, maximum, and he’s already drenched in sweat. Perspiration is so distasteful. Brendon lifts his hand, and Jon manages to catch sight of us, giving us both a gigantic grin. Before him are four thousand and eight hundred people, most of who have come to see me.

“He and Ron are –”

“Tom? You mean Tom?”

“Shit, yeah.”

Brendon points at the blond guitarist on the other side of the stage.

I try again. “He and Tom are staying in, um. Room 317. He asked to pass on the message.”

“Far out,” Brendon smiles, and I stand by him awkwardly. The noise of the music would suffice a normal guy with the perfect excuse not to speak, but I feel compelled to, then anguished when I cannot come up with anything. I say, “Yeah,” and leave Brendon to it.

* * *

Ten minutes before we go on. It’s time for me to break down inside. I lock the dressing room toilet, do vocal exercises, relax my jaw and sing, “Do, re, mi, do, re, mi.” I take another sip of my vodka and sing, “Fuck this shi-ii-ii-it.”

“Let me in, man,” Spencer’s voice says with a gentle knock on the door. I exhale and consider my chances. The crowd is chanting louder than ever, and I can hear them. _Fo-llow-ers, Fo-llow-ers –_

I hide my face in my hands and will my body not to shake. It’s too much. Every night is too fucking much, but somehow, I end up in the middle of the stage, Spencer behind me, Joe to my right and Brent to my left, and we remain where we are for one and a half hours, and I sing, I sing and play, and I always walk out in one piece, but even closer to caving in than before. This moment right before we go on, I need Spencer to talk me into it. He knows that. 

I let Spencer in, and he closes the door behind himself. I say, “You didn’t tell me you had coffee with some chick.” 

“Jealous?” he smirks, though his face flashes with what I sensed earlier: guilt. 

“Immensely jealous,” I admit and pause. “Did you fuck her?” It’s not an unreasonable question, and we both know that. My tone is, perhaps, a bit too hopeful. He shakes his head, and I am not sure if I am relieved or disappointed. To be honest, I was just curious. “Did you want to?” He shrugs. I try again. “Well, did you like her?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s good,” I try to say cheerfully, but fail as my voice falters under my own nervous breakdown. Spencer chews on his bottom lip worriedly. “You can fuck other chicks now. You can. You’re not with that girl anymore, so –”

“She’s got a name! Haley! Don’t ‘that girl’ her all the fucking time,” Spencer swears angrily.

“I just –”

“Fuck, Ryan!” he interrupts, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. “I mean, how am I supposed to move on if everyone tiptoes about it? Haley. Just say it. Don’t make it bigger than it is. I’m trying here, you know?”

“Sure,” I agree. Love is not love if Pete can offer your girlfriend enough money to disappear. It must sting. It mustn’t have been enough for Spencer to think she made the right choice.

“If something is going to destroy this band, it’s not me or anything to do with me,” Spencer states firmly, looking over my shoulder at the dirty bathroom mirror where we are reflected. I turn to study the portrayal: Spencer in his stage clothes, drumsticks ready, composed, determined, and then there’s me, my tie badly done, shirt buttoned wrong, vodka bottle in hand, a silly, feathery hat on my head. This is not the pep talk Spencer usually gives me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask sceptically. I have no skeletons in my closet – I’ve pulled them out, dressed them up, and put them in songs.

Spencer lets out a breath. “Nothing. It’s just that... It’s an enthusiastic crowd out there tonight.”

Now we’re in the part where he talks me into going on stage.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this tour. It’s too much, it –”

“No, it’s not. A few thousand, one million. It doesn’t matter how many people are out there because you will be perfect like you are every damn night.” I scoff at his flattery, and Spencer places a hand on my shoulder. “Remember back in ’63 when we spent the summer as paper delivery boys?”

“Yeah,” I admit, chuckling at the memory. I had my red bike. It was a good bike. “It was pretty bad ass, though nothing will ever get me out of bed before five in the morning again.” Now five in the morning is when I go to bed. On tour it’s all reversed: sleep during the day, stay up all night.

“It was the shittiest job ever, right?”

I nod in agreement and think back to the dry Las Vegas mornings, the dogs that chased me, the time I nearly drove my bike in front of a bus, leaving for my round before Dad had come back from the bar.

“But you did it anyway. You wanted to buy yourself a guitar, so you did the job, and you did it well. And I know this isn’t what you had pictured back then, but this is what you’ve got. Most bands never get a record deal, and even if they do get one, they never make a living off of it. You did. Now this is your job, and you are going to go out there and play the best you can. Not because you have to but because you want to play your music for yourself and the half a dozen people in the audience that have you figured out. And that’s all you have to do. Nothing else, nothing more.”

“Yeah?” I ask, the hope so clear in my tone that I almost feel embarrassed. That sounds doable. I could do that.

A knock on the door. “Ryan!” Pete’s voice. “Ryan, you better come the fuck out of there and get on stage! Don’t keep your admiring fans waiting!”

“ _His_ admiring fans?” Joe’s voice asks.

“Come on! Or I’ll have Zack break this door! You’re not a middle leaguer anymore, so stop acting like it! The label –”

“Shut up about the fucking label!” I nearly scream, and Spencer puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a smile. I don’t know who is telling me the truth, Spencer or Pete, and I don’t know which will give me the strength to go on stage. The chanting is even louder now. _Fo-llow-ers! Fo-llow-ers!_ They are stomping their feet. I bury my face in my hands.

“You can do it,” Spencer whispers.

“You have to do it, man!” Pete shouts.

I unlock the door, high-five the crew, don’t look any of them in the eye because they know that I was hiding, they know, so I hurry past them, and I go out to a roaring applause of thousands.

It’s time to do my round.

* * *

I don’t go to the club we’re invited to, so my bandmates go without me. I know the party by heart: plenty of alcohol, excessive amounts of drugs, stunning women. Joe will smash a piece of furniture or another while Brent will fuck anything that moves, and Spencer will get drunk beyond belief and smile this silly little smile as he thinks of some other life he is not living. It will be full of local people of interest, maybe someone I actually know, and everyone thinks I am so funny, so smart, so exciting.

It’s a little after one in the morning that I come out of the shower and stretch my aching limbs on the hotel bed. Two more nights in Chicago. I get out a cigarette and light it, lying naked and letting my body dry as smoke swirls in the air in front of me. I’m wondering if the phone will ring, if Jac will call. I know she won’t, but there’s no harm wondering.

Someone knocks on my door. The knock is cautious and hasty. I lift my head, cigarette between my lips. It’s most likely some girl. They always find me, bribe someone, try their luck, find out my hotel room number. And they come in the middle of the night, eyes bright and lips sweet.

There are two kinds of groupies: those who want to fuck me because I’m famous and those who want to fuck me because of my music. I prefer the first group. It’s not advisable to fuck girls who love the music – they take it too personally. You are the music. And it’s true. I am the music. The fame seeking girls are far more sincere when it comes to pussy and dick.

They knock a second time. I wonder which type of girl is behind the door, but don’t go find out. Eventually, I hear someone walking away.

After fifteen minutes of sleep not taking over, I start regretting my decision. I get dressed and decide to have a look in the hotel bar. Maybe the girl decided to hang around.

I walk down the hotel corridor, combing my slightly wet hair with my fingers. My belt hangs unbuckled. I head for the door that will lead me to the hotel stairs, but I come to a sudden stop outside a noisy room. 317. I stare at the golden plate that has been nailed to the door. Laughter pours through, someone is playing guitar, someone is singing. The hotel corridor is deserted.

The crew is getting along with the current support. That’s good, really. I’m just amazed how easily some people friend others, how I, once again, missed out on it. I think I’m paying attention, but later I realise it was to the wrong things. I’m not jealous. I’m not envious. It’s good that they get along. Really good.

I sigh restlessly and try to look away from the door. I have three options: sleep, groupie or this. I hear laughter, and I’m convinced it’s Brendon.

I knock on the door.

I instantly regret it and stuff my hands in my jean pockets. Jon opens the door, and the smell of weed hits me like a wave. “Ryan! Hey! Come on in, dude, come in!” He grabs my arm and pulls.

“I was just wondering if –” any of my bandmates are there. A lame excuse, definitely, but it’s all I can come up with on the spot. Jon doesn’t wait for me to finish.

“Guys, look who’s here!”

I scan the room, recognising Tom and the drummer of their band sitting on the floor. A light brown-haired girl is sitting on a bed, and Brendon is sitting in an armchair by the window, a joint between his index and middle finger, his other hand holding cards.

No one seems surprised by my presence. It’s the pot. Jon guides me to sit down on the floor and join them, and I notice they are playing poker. The guitar I heard lies abandoned on the other bed. Tom passes me a joint, and I take a hit. Jon offers me a glass of whisky, and I accept. I take a second glance at the girl. She’s beautiful. 

“Let me think!” Brendon insists and stares at his cards. “What was higher, straight or flush?” 

“Flush,” Tom says with impatience, his tone bearing repetition. 

“We’re teaching the man,” Jon explains with a drunken smile. “Can’t play cards for shit.” 

“That I can’t,” Brendon calls out and shakes with laughter as he finds this endlessly amusing.

“But he can play guitar,” the girl says in a smooth voice that has me looking her way again. Our eyes meet, but she looks away. A bit of a chase, is that what she wants? Alright. I’ll chase her.

Brendon gets dealt two cards, and his face lights up with boyish excitement. 

“Brendon, dude!” Jon laughs. 

“Shit, right,” Brendon says and tries to look nonchalant

“Fold,” Tom says instantly, and Brendon starts pouting, his lips jutting outwards. His expression is so sad that I forget the pretty girl, who also folds. Huh. I knew when I saw Brendon that he was beautiful, but somehow, I realise it all over again. A different kind of beautiful.

“Don’t fold! Come on, you guys!” Brendon insists.

Jon hides his face in his hand. “You fucking suck at poker, you know that?”

Brendon notices me staring, and he lifts an eyebrow at me. I simply lift my bottle in greeting, feel stupid doing it, and stare at my shoes. The weed and booze are getting to me, but it’s hardly a surprise when I have been drinking on and off for at least six hours.

Jon wins the game with a flush, and Brendon curses, throwing his cards into the air. The girl stands up, her orange dress belted with a big-buckled, green belt. She leans over the drummer to give Jon a loving kiss, and Jon’s hand slides on her neck, his fingers touching the undoubtedly smooth skin. So that’s why she’s not already sitting in my lap. She thinks she’s found love. And if that’s Jon’s girlfriend, then it’s the girl Spencer talked about. Well, Spencer’s got taste, and I fold my game for the night, though mine had nothing to do with cards.

I lean my back against the bed and take another hit, not really participating in the conversation. Jon tries to get a second game going, but it comes to nothing when Tom takes the guitar and starts playing _California Dreamin’_. Brendon starts singing in the chorus, and I sit up straighter. His voice. It’s an acquired taste, a wobble that isn’t there because of unprofessionalism. He is hitting every note he intends to, and the shake in his voice must be the way he prefers to sing. His voice is full and dark. Mine is raw and thin. We’re both acquired tastes, but I like the way he sounds. Brendon goes an octave higher, demonstrating a range I can only dream of. He goes even higher than Jon’s girlfriend.

“What are you guys called again?” I ask Jon. 

“Canadian History.” 

“You’re Canadian?” 

“No.” 

“Ever been over there?”

“A few times.”

“Know anything of its history?”

“No, just a band name. We were sort of drunk when we came up with it. Then it just stuck.”

Brendon has taken the guitar, softly playing as Tom sings. The drummer, whose name is Nate, has gathered courage to tell me how awesome he thinks it is that we’re drinking together. They don’t seem to mind that I have crashed their party. Why would they? They’ll never get another chance to get wasted with someone as talented or famous as me.

Brendon changes to a country song, making Tom crack up. “This man!” he exclaims and motions at Brendon. “I love this man!”

Jon nods in agreement, and since no one seems to be listening, I ask him, “You don’t mind that Brendon’s... you know.”

“He’s what?” Jon asks, baffled. 

“No, no, go to the minors!” Tom enthuses, and Brendon obeys, the two of them howling in laughter as Nate drums a hotel pillow with two empty beer bottles.

“That he’s not playing for the same team as you?” I offer.

“Nah!” Jon exclaims. “You’re here too, aren’t you? We’re excited about touring with you guys, thousands of new people have heard our music now. It’s great!”

“Ry, you play something,” Brendon says, passing me the guitar. I take it simply out of surprise that Brendon has decided to call me by my unofficial nickname. I stare at the instrument stupidly for a minute, too high and drunk to remember how Foxy Lady goes. As I play and the rest of the guys sing, I wonder if this is the type of touring I have always heard everyone talking about, but have never seen myself. Guys hanging out, getting shitfaced, sweat, saliva and music. Always music.

“We’re out of beer!” Jon’s girlfriend exclaims unhappily, and Nate stands up, slightly wobbly.

“I’ve got some in my room. Come on, let’s get some. Come on! Cas, stand up, I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you, for real. Like this and – ” The girl squeals as Nate picks her up and puts her over his shoulder. She kicks the air and laughs, and Jon smacks her ass.

“Don’t drop her now!” Jon warns before he flops down to sit next to me, and Nate carries the girl out of the room. I pass him the guitar, and he starts playing. It’s nothing I recognise, but it’s damn good. “I’m just improvising,” he slurs and chuckles. 

“Keep going,” I say, suddenly very intrigued.

Jon has amazing taste. We start talking and seem unable to stop, passing the guitar back and forth and throwing ideas around just for the hell of it. He’s a fucking talented guy. Brendon, Nate, Tom and the girl play more cards as we proceed to ignore them.

“If this band of yours fails,” I say at one point, and he laughs. “Or you want to jam. Or hey, a side project. I think we should, yeah, I think it might be fun. Some time, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Jon grants, a pleased, eager smile on his face. “Yeah, man. That, uh, that’d be great. We could jam some more tomorrow.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Shit. Awesome.” He sounds disbelieving and flattered. He beams at me.

Nate passes out before I finally leave. Jon and I talk about dogs. He knows a lot about them, can list fifty different breeds. Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retrievers make loyal pets. I don’t know what they look like. He says orange and alert. Brendon stumbles down the hotel corridor with us, going through his pockets and trying to remember his room number. Brendon’s fingers go down to brush the slice of skin showing at the top of his jeans. Jon has to steady him more than once, and I follow the way they move, reminding me of birds shooting down to a lake to take a sip of water in midflight.

I pay attention when Jon and Brendon hug goodnight. It’s brief, one-armed, like I’d hug Brent or Spencer. Brendon waves me a goodbye, and Jon is kind enough to take me to my door. He appears to be annoyingly clear-headed.

“So that was your girlfriend back there,” I say suddenly.

“Yeah, Cas. Cassie. The love of my life.” Jon grins brightly. “Two years and going strong.”

I am pretty sure Spencer could have fucked her if he had wanted to. Spencer is a well-known rock star, and this Jon guy. Who the hell even is he? I could’ve fucked her. Sure I could’ve.

“Huh.” We’ve reached my room, Jon is opening the door for me. I stop. “He’s a fag, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Brendon,” I clarify and motion back to where we came from. I see Brendon’s face when I close my eyes, beautiful and laughing. “He fucks guys. Some guys do.”

Jon seems surprised. Gotcha. Gotcha, you motherfucker. I only say it because it’s true. For honesty. For virtue. Jon seems nice, he deserves to know.

“Yeah, some guys do,” Jon agrees. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” I reply instantly. It really doesn’t bother me. I just can’t stop thinking about it. “You got any in your band? Your crew?” I ask hopefully.

“We’ve got one black guy?”

I shake my head in disappointment. Most people I know haven’t cared about race since Marvin Gaye. My point is, and it’s an important point, is that we’ve got a gay roadie, who seems nice, can sing and play guitar, considers himself cute and too precious to settle down, and clearly does not want to talk about his family. We’ve got this thing, this funny, odd thing that I don’t know what to do with. It didn’t come with a manual.

“Goodnight,” Jon offers, and I stumble back into my room, get undressed, light a cigarette and stare at the smoke swirling higher and higher to the ceiling.


	4. Wild with Misdemeanour

I promise not to tell Canadian History’s management that the band doesn’t need to stay in the hotel. Jon’s place is just a few streets down from the hotel, but he is abusing the privilege of being on the road with a band that demands four-star treatment. “And the breakfast is a lot nicer at the hotel. You crash on my couch, all you get is a kick in the ass to get out by noon,” Jon grins. “Does your manager know you’re here?”

“Pete? Yeah, sure.” I keep playing around with the guitar in my lap as one of Jon’s cats purrs at my feet. He lives with Cassie, who is at work. The place looks like it has that feminine touch to it, something sweet and homelike that speaks a lot about their relationship.

Jon comes back from the kitchen with two beer bottles and passes me one. I lift it as a thank you, and we start working on the song we started at the hotel yesterday.

Pete doesn’t actually know where I am, but I have three hours until soundcheck. I can be wherever I want, and Pete can run around in circles looking for me for all I care.

Canadian History’s music is pretty heavy. It puts a lot of attention on their singer’s vocals, letting it take attention away from the monotonous sound of the music. Jon should be in some other band that matches his talent. Jon, unlike the rest of his bandmates, isn’t mediocre.

“I really like this song,” I admit. It’s not loud. Jon and I both play acoustics, and the song is melodic and nearly pretty. With the different sections and messed up time signatures, it’s like a Followers song unplugged, and I’m surprised that I like it. It doesn’t need to be loud to hit home.

“What do you think of this at the end?” Jon asks, playing a little riff over and over.

“Go a bit higher. Yeah, like that. Yeah.”

Cassie comes home in the afternoon, and she sits on the couch and watches us play. She sends Jon bright smiles that Jon returns with adoring looks. She doesn’t smile all that much at me. Maybe I eye-fucked her a bit too much. Women always know when you want them, and she is doing nothing to let me even think I’ve got a shot. It’s a shame for her. I bet I’d fuck her better than Jon.

“Is anyone else coming?” Cassie asks, and Jon explains that the two of us are just messing around with music. “Brendon’s not coming?” Cassie asks disappointedly.

“Nah. Didn’t ask but he would’ve had roadie duties anyway,” Jon shrugs. Cassie offers to make us something to eat before we head back for the venue. I haven’t seen Jon around Brendon since I told him the news. I think Brendon liked Jon in a purely non-sexual way. Should I feel guilty that I’m ruining the kid’s chances of making friends? Or should I be worried that I can’t shake off this conscience I have developed?

“Remember a few nights ago when you walked me back to my hotel room?” I begin to ask, and Jon makes an agreeing sound. “Yeah, well, the thing I said about Brendon. He’s told us since he’s touring with us, but I don’t think he wants everyone to know. So, like, I was just thinking if you could keep it to yourself unless he brings it up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was gonna do,” Jon shrugs like it was obvious. He had probably forgotten. It’s not a big thing unless I make it seem like one.

I rub my nose. “Just no reason for everyone to know we’re touring with one of those.”

“I won’t tell. No need to cause trouble,” Jon promises. “Hey, what do you wanna do with these songs?”

I shrug in response. The songs are good, though. They ought to be shared. And within the past day, I’ve realised that writing music with Jon comes easier than it has with any of my bandmates, excluding Spencer, maybe, were I to rewind a few years. But Spencer’s changed. He doesn’t enjoy this anymore. He’s here physically, but I have no idea where his thoughts are, where his heart is. And I’ve merely gotten sadder.

“We’ll see what happens,” I tell Jon. Maybe I could do a side project of sorts, sit down with Jon and write more songs. See what happens.

Cassie walks back in with one of the cats purring loudly in her arms. She’s holding a record that turns out to be the first Followers album, which we conveniently called _The Followers_. “Since you’re here,” she says a bit disregardingly, and I sign the self-titled 1971 album. She’s got that faux smile I see on fans sometimes, when they meet their idols only to be disappointed.

Cassie’s put the casserole in the oven. Jon and I finish our second song before it’s done.

* * *

I don’t go directly to the venue like Jon does. He has soundcheck, and I have a lack of alcohol in my system. Pete has started giving me long, disappointed looks when I drink up before going on stage, and it’s bullshit, utter fucking bullshit because the rest of the guys are just as drunk as me. Almost. Kind of.

I find a café not too far from the venue. I get myself a glass of Coke, make sure the waitress is out of sight before getting out my flask and mixing vodka with the drink. The carved initials on the flask’s front feel rough under my thumb. _G.R.R. III_. It belonged to my dad, but I carved one more line to change the II into a III. Nothing changes between generations except Roman numerals. I took the flask when I moved to LA. I doubt he’s missed it.

I stand out in the café with my overgrown hair and week’s stubble. It’s a friendly looking place where picket fence America enjoys warm apple pies with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And I’m at the back, internally mocking the unimaginative baby this, baby that pop song that’s on the radio as smartly dressed adults and their mini-adult offspring prance around and ponder over inviting the Johnsons over for dinner. That will never be me. I take another sip of my vodka mix. God, that’ll never be me.

I need to take a leak. I spot the toilet sign and head for it, letting my eyes wash over the other customers. That old lady over there, well fuck her. And that business man, fuck him too. And that rock guy speaking to the payphone next to the toilet doors, fuc – Spencer? I stop in my tracks, frowning. It is Spencer.

At first, I am unsure because Spencer is actually smiling, a blinding smile full of white teeth. And the drummer of my band never smiles. Not in my presence. “You know you gotta call me when it goes down, right? Like, uh, you got all the hotels we’ll be staying – Hey, let me triple check, would you?” he laughs.

I blink. “Spencer?”

He almost jumps as he looks up and sees me. “I gotta go,” he says simply and hangs up. We stare at each other for a second before he clears his throat. “Where you been? Pete is furious.”

“At Jon’s writing music. Who were you talking to?”

“Sorry?”

“Just now. On the phone.”

“That. Right.” He looks back to the phone, mouth open, then rushes out, “Crystal. Just checking how everyone is back home.”

“Oh. And how is your sister?”

“Fine. Both of them.”

“Good. You heading back to the venue?” He nods and rubs his nose, eyes averting. “Sweet. Wait for me, alright? Need to take a leak.”

“Uh huh.”

I try to give Spencer the best smile I can, the one that reminds him that I’m his best friend and I trust him completely. We don’t need to know everything about each other’s lives. I trust him, sure, but fuck me if I’m buying his bullshit.

Spencer is waiting outside the café when I come out. The sunlight is too bright for me, and I get my oversized sunglasses from my pocket, the brown lenses helping to bring the world into focus. “So you and Jon, huh?” Spencer asks, and okay, guess we’re not talking about him or what the hell it is that Spencer is waiting to go down.

“We’ve written two songs. Damn good.”

“What you gonna do with them?” Spencer asks, just like Jon did. I don’t know yet. I’m not sure. Spencer says, “We used to write on tour.”

“I know.”

Now, we only write when we have to, when the label tells us to pop out a new record. It’s taken all the joy out of it. It’s not like that with Jon.

We walk without saying anything, and the silence is not as comfortable as it used to be back when we were fourteen, seventeen, twenty-one. It’s not as comfortable, but it’s not awkward either. Not yet.

“Just be careful,” Spencer says eventually. I eye the venue we’re closing in on, wondering how to get inside without any of the fans outside noticing. “Listen to me,” Spencer demands, and I grudgingly give him all of my attention. He always gives me advice, saying we should go talk to that Joe guy because he was damn good on that small bar stage, or he’s telling me that it’s probably for the best if I get rid of that blonde groupie Jac before she becomes a permanent figure in my life. Half of the time I listen to Spencer, half of the time I don’t. “All I’m saying is that you don’t know this Jon guy at all. You don’t know what he wants. There’s him, the bassist of some Midwestern wonder only locals have heard of, and then there’s you, an internationally acknowledged music genius. So you think about that, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good,” Spencer nods and adds, “We miss you, you know. The rest of us.” The way Spencer says ‘us’ can only mean the four of us, the core of this mess. The guys miss me? _Joe_ misses me? “You know you’ve shut us out,” Spencer says without any blame at all, and it makes it that much worse.

“I’ll try harder,” is my automatic response, and Spencer smiles and doesn’t mention Jon for the rest of the day, but he keeps giving me looks that make me feel like I have been cheating on the band with Jon Walker.

* * *

“Fifteen minutes to bus call!” Pete calls out, and William and Zack lift another amp box and carry it from the venue’s backdoor to the bus that is being loaded. I light my cigarette, put the lighter back in my pocket, and check the cigarette packet. None left. The night clouds have overtaken the sky, the ground still wet from the rain that must have fallen during our show. St. Louis is pitch black and glistening, a chilly wind making its way under my jacket.

The support band has packed up already, but they haven’t left yet. I see Tom and Jon kicking a beer can back and forth, laughing their heads off. I wonder what they are on and why Jon didn’t offer me some. We’re friends by now.

Brendon carries two guitars to our bus, the doors of the luggage space wide open on both sides, slowly getting refilled with expensive equipment.

Brendon and William put down an amplifier case, and Brendon stretches his arms and groans loudly. “My back is fucking killing me.”

“You’re younger than me, what about my back?” William shoots.

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

“Deal,” William beams. Brent sends me a ‘dear fucking god’ look that says if those two start rubbing each other in our presence, Brent will be the first one running to the door in order to save his straight life. I chuckle and wonder if there is any truth in Spencer’s words, if the guys miss me. It’s hard to believe with the attitude I get from them.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Brent.

“Don’t leave me,” Brent says with complete sincerity matched with big, pleading eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. I spend my fifteen minutes walking up and down the nearest street, eventually managing to bum two cigarettes off a guy outside a bar. He is drunk as hell and asks me if I went to the Followers show. I tell him I was there.

He asks, “Fucking overrated shit, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“You’re a good man. Here, here, take another!”

I smoke two of my three cigarettes on my way to the bus, but once I walk around the corner to the back, I hear yelling and see commotion by the buses. The guys are tiny figures in the distance, but it’s clear that a fight has broken out. Someone yells, “You fucker!” loud enough for it to break the silence of the night. I break into a fast jog, partly dreading, partly hoping, that something major has happened that will cause the immediate cancellation of our tour.

I am left disappointed. The troublemakers are Brendon and Nate.

“I’m telling you, man!” the drummer is shouting in slight disorientation, eyes wild with anger. He is high as a fucking kite. “Don’t come near me or –”

“Or what?!” Brendon shouts back. The rest of the guys are watching the show from a safe distance, most of them looking slightly embarrassed to even be there. “You think I’m gonna rape you? Or are you afraid that you might actually like it?”

“You sick pervert!” Nate yells.

He knows. How does he know, how did this get out? My eyes find Jon, who is looking at the ground, at anything except the display in front of us. I feel myself taking a blow. That fucker. He _promised_ me.

Nate keeps swearing. “You motherfucking –”

“Hey!” I intervene loudly, surprising even myself that I don’t just stand and watch, passive and indifferent like is the norm with me, and Brendon turns to look at me, and the clouds shift, the moonlight hits him, and he looks beautiful in that one moment before the fist flying at him makes contact. Brendon takes the punch, stumbling backwards before launching on the man, reminding me of a leopard leaping on its dinner. I run closer while chaos breaks out, the guys trying to tear them apart. Zack easily picks Brendon up, who kicks air and swears as his nose bleeds, smearing his mouth and chin. Tom and Andy have Nate, who is struggling to get to Brendon. Spencer stands in between the two parties, holding up his hands. “Whoa! Calm the fuck down!”

“You fucking faggot!” Nate yells.

Zack lets go of Brendon, who doesn’t stop to wipe his face as he tries to attack again. “I’m gonna kill –” Brendon starts yelling, and Zack grabs the back of the roadie’s shirt and pulls him, picking him up a second time and literally carrying Brendon away while he shouts angrily. Andy and Tom let go of Nate, who yells such a long list of vulgarities that I am almost impressed.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Tom says hurriedly. “Nate’s on some acid, he’s not himself. Really didn’t mean to cause trouble –”

“I’m not sorry!” Nate declares loudly. Zack comes back, and I see Brendon walking away from us, punching the air and yelling at no one in particular. Jon is talking to Nate, hands on the drummer’s shoulders.

“One of these nights,” Zack says. It’s really a surprise we managed this long without a fight. “Let’s finish packing up.”

“Shit,” I mutter and look for a cigarette before remembering I only have one left. I’ll have to save it.

“Is that all?!” William demands angrily.

“William, we need to get on the road. Do your job, then think about your personal life,” Pete commands. William is nearly seething as he flips his long hair and storms to put the drum kit on the bus. Spencer walks to me, a solemn look on his face.

“Someone should go talk to him.”

I follow his gaze and see that Brendon has crossed the street running next to the venue, pacing back and forth in front of a closed café. Spencer’s right. Someone probably should. Canadian History won’t be touring with us much longer, so at least Nate won’t be around. And maybe it’s a good thing someone called Brendon a fag and punched him for his alternative lifestyle. Now it means Joe or Brent doesn’t feel like they need to do it. That would have been worse.

“What happened?” I ask, and Spencer shrugs. He looks tired, and we’re only a week into the tour. Joe walks over to listen to the story.

“Brendon just went over to talk, and Nate told him to stay away. Nate made a nasty remark, and I gotta admit that Brendon went down fighting. He said, ‘My kind? You mean fags?’” Spencer chuckles almost fondly.

Joe interrupts with, “No, man, you’re telling it all wrong. Listen, Brendon went over, right, and Nate was giving him an attitude. So Nate says he doesn’t want to hang out with Brendon’s kind, so Brendon says, ‘My kind? You mean Aries?’ That’s what he said. Fucking funny, man. Now Nate is being vague, so Brendon shouts at him until Nate calls him a cocksucker, and Brendon asks what business is it of his whose cock he sucks, and Nate insists that it’s not but it’s goddamn disgusting anyway, and Brendon says he’s only so worried because he thinks he’d like a guy sucking his cock. That’s when the guns started blazing.” Joe smiles like it’s a funny story.

“Someone should go talk to him,” Spencer repeats and gives me a long look with his blue eyes and then nods after Brendon. Why me? What could I possibly say that Spencer couldn’t?

I hear banging as the luggage compartment doors are shut. The tour bus is ready to go. All guys are still outside, though, restless, upset. Nate is muttering curses about his aching jaw, and Spencer is telling me to play the doctor and feed us all medicine. But I’m not sick.

When I remain still, Spencer says, “We can’t just leave him here.”

“God! Fine, I’ll go,” I hiss and start making my way over to Brendon, who is across the street from the Kiel Auditorium. I try to come up with something to say as I make my way over, mainly something about how he fought like a man, how his boxing coach would be proud of him for not passing out after a punch like that, provided that he has a coach, which he most likely doesn’t, so it’s a useless comfort, really. I stop at a safe distance and wait for Brendon to acknowledge my presence. He is holding his nose, fingers in blood, shaking his head and shivering with anger. “Is your nose...?” I ask, and Brendon shakes his head. It’s not broken or he’d be in excruciating pain. “The bus is leaving soon,” I offer. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Brendon lets go of his nose and rubs it gingerly. He gives me a dirty look. “You got a fucking cigarette?”

“No. Sorry.”

Brendon wipes his nose to his sleeve and shakes his head in disbelief, kicking the asphalt beneath his feet. I give in.

“Okay, here. You can have my last one.” I give him the cigarette I earned by dissing my own band. But at least it was on honest opinion unaffected by the appraisal of the press, though he could have hated us simply to be original. I light the cigarette for Brendon, and he inhales shakily. His eyes are watery, and I’m not sure if it’s from the pain or something else. I longingly look back at our bus, wanting to abandon this sinking ship I so unwisely boarded. Goddamn Spencer. I hope Joe isn’t hanging around to watch this spectacle.

“I liked Nate. I thought he was a damn nice guy. Can you believe that?” Brendon vents.

“I thought he seemed like a suck up, really.”

“Turns out that,” Brendon says, faces the buses and yells, “he’s a _homophobic piece of shit_!” The words echo along the empty street.

I can’t believe Jon told his bandmates after I told him not to. He made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal to him, but clearly, it was. Clearly, Jon thought the news was even harder to swallow than I did. It’s not my fault Jon is a tell-tale. I gave Brendon my last cigarette, didn’t I? This isn’t my fault. I have been purified with a sprinkle of holy water.

“Nate shouldn’t have called you those things,” I say objectively. “And you should have just walked away.”

Brendon’s head snaps up, his eyes thinning. “Excuse me? You think I should have done nothing?”

“Sometimes, it’s the braver thing to do.” And the smart thing to do. Gays should get that they can’t prance around wherever they want.

“It is not brave to be silent! It’s cowardly! I have come out of the closet, and I’m not going back in for anyone! I fuck guys. I kiss them, I lick them, I suck them. I go to gay clubs and think my gay thoughts and I march in the GFMs, and I am _not_ afraid to say it’s who I am.”

“GFMs?” I ask, anything to stop the mental images of Brendon fucking, kissing, licking and sucking from corrupting my brain.

“Gay Freedom Marches,” he supplies, and well, I’ve never heard of those. Sounds a bit too ambitious. Brendon scoffs and looks at me down his nose. “I will not accommodate to other people’s ideals, and I won’t suppress a vital part of myself to help narrow-minded, oppressive heteros feel better! I am not trying to please Nate or you or any fucker. It’s who I am and I don’t hide it, but it still doesn’t make it any of your goddamn business, and no one, _no one_ has the right to physically or verbally assault me for it.”

“I think you’re contradicting yourself there. If you openly promote it, it is other people’s business,” I point out, and Brendon looks like he’s about to hit me next, so I let it be and add, “Though I see your point, sure. You gotten punched for it before?”

“Three times, but who’s counting?” he shoots back before sitting down and leaning against the café door, my cigarette shaking in his fingers. He has gotten blood on it. He looks small, lonely and miserable, full of contradictions and no solutions. Fucking great, now I feel sorry for him.

“I thought San Francisco was pretty accepting of gays. Or certain places at least.”

“Never gotten punched back home. No, it was before, when I...” His voice fades away into a heavy sigh. I stare at him expectantly, but he shakes his head. “Never mind. Nothing.” He takes a drag of the cigarette.

“I was brought up in Las Vegas,” I offer. “It’s very... dry. Lots of flashy lights. Some of my first times playing in public were when Spencer and I went busking on Fremont Street. The best place is outside The Mint. This one time a lady gave us a fifty dollar chip, she must’ve won big time. I bought an amp with it.” By now I am fully aware that I am babbling, which only happens when I get nervous. Not the kind of nervous I get before interviews or performances, because that is always mixed with terror. This is the kind of nervousness that stems from feeling unsure and hoping I don’t make an ass of myself, which is clearly what I’m doing.

“I’ve never been, but it sounds nice,” he offers. Las Vegas really isn’t all that nice. It’s a fake city. Rewind seventy years, and it was a dozen houses in the middle of nothing.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” I say because it’s probably what I am expected to say. Brendon looks like my words have hardly any impact on him, knowing as well as me that they are empty.

“Imagine if it were you. That someone wants you to die because you want to love women.”

“I don’t love them,” I correct him. “Don’t love anyone.”

“Fuck them?”

“Plenty.”

“Because you fuck them. Just pretend for one second what it’s like, and even then, you won’t come close to the shit I’ve put up with. And every time I think that it’s done, that I won’t have to put up with it anymore, something like this happens. Why does every straight guy think I want to fuck them or convert them? Do they want to fuck every woman they see? No. I’m picky just like the rest, and they already have one quality I don’t want: straight. Nate’s a paranoid piece of shit.”

“They won’t be playing with us much longer. Rest of the tour will be Nate free.”

“It’s not him, it’s what he represents. The millions that are like him.”

I sit down next to him, offering him my silence. The ground is wet, moisture coming through the backs of my jeans. Brendon’s breathing is uneven. “Think it’s gonna rain,” I observe.

He says nothing for a long time, but I can feel him slowly relaxing. “Yeah. Yeah, looks like rain. You guys were pretty good tonight.”

“Were we?” I ask, grateful for the change of subject. “Met a guy who said we were shit.”

“You still look like you’re about to pass out whenever you go on stage, but yeah. You were better. Maybe you’re getting used to life on the road,” he says like an expert, and I hate the fact that anyone who tours with us can see how terrified I am of the audiences. It’s humiliating to say the least, but I won’t feel sorry for myself. It must be hell to wake up every damn day to the same round of ridicule because there’s something messed up in your brain that makes you want to fuck your own sex. Brendon is clearly the one who should and has the right to wallow in self-pity. Since we’re competing...

Canadian History’s bus starts up, and the sound of the engine screeching alerts me. “We gotta go,” I say, and Brendon throws the rest of the cigarette away. I pick it up and take two quick drags since I don’t want to waste it. Brendon gives me a slightly disgusted look, but the ground was clean. Pretty sure it was.

The crews have disappeared into their respective buses by the time we come back. Andy is driving ours. The lounge is nearly empty, the guys having decided to vanish for the evening. I can already hear Zack’s steady snore. William is still in the lounge and he rushes over, a furious look on his face. “How could he?! How could he?! I am enraged! We should call the police! We should –”

William goes off like a Roman candle, babbling on and on about the injustice, intolerance, having worked himself up to a nearly nonsensical state. I wonder what William will do on the day the world actually ends. Because it will, you know. It definitely will, and then taking a punch in St. Louis will be nothing more than an amiable memory.

“How’s your nose?” William asks after giving Brendon several hugs.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Come on,” I mumble, giving William a look that signals him to leave us be. He seems surprised and even more upset, but Spencer gave me this task and I will see it through. I take Brendon to my nest, motioning him to sit on the edge of my bed while I go get some toilet paper and a glass of water. He cleans himself up, and I sit next to him, keeping my eyes on the closed door. The blue sheets smell of the sex I’ve had, an unpleasant, sweaty smell that I hope Brendon won’t notice because of the clotted blood in his nostrils. I need to tell Pete to arrange for the sheets to be washed.

“We could sabotage the Canadian History set tomorrow,” I offer half-heartedly.

“We could throw a bottle at Nate,” Brendon suggests as he rubs the last bits of blood off of his face.

“Good idea. And then we’ll feign ignorance.”

“That’d be nice,” he smiles, eyes cast downwards. I feel not-numb at the sight, trying not to frown at my sudden role as the protector of the innocent. “We’ll do it then.”

I nod. “Definitely.”

He manages to grin. “You’re alright. I thought you were a bit of a zombie, but you’re alright when you do decide to talk.”

“I didn’t decide anything. I just feel sorry for you for getting punched.”

He shrugs. “I’ll take it. You’re alright.”

“Grazie,” I mumble, and Brendon grins openly before wincing and going back to gently touching his nose. It’s swollen, but at least now it matches his naturally puffy lips. The bus takes off, and we slowly sway left, right, left as Andy takes turns.

“It’s a nice room you’ve got here,” Brendon observes. “We do have reason to be jealous, I guess.”

“Joe talking shit about it behind my back?”

“Joe and everyone else.”

“Ah.” So much for loyalty. I don’t understand why Spencer has to keep up appearances. The four of us will never be friends like we once were, and it will hurt less if we just admit it.

“The way you all speak of each other, I don’t know, man. Sort of surprised you’re bandmates, not enemies.”

I get up and open the door for Brendon. “What’s the difference?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Nothing,” he concludes, taking the hint and walking out. There are four bunks on both walls, grouped into two and two. Brendon goes to his, right after my door on the upper left. “Spasiba for the cigarette,” he whispers quietly and climbs in. I close the door and dive into the sea of dirty sheets.

* * *

I don’t know how he talked me into this. I am not this kind of person, but I suppose he is. I take my rebellion onto paper, but books never started revolutions. People did. People still do. And Coke bottles apparently do.

I feel a mix of disbelief and giddy, boyish disobedience as I find Pete and Zack following Canadian History’s set from the side of the stage. I tell Pete that Joe is having a diva fit and that Zack might have to detain him. The two hurry off, and I whistle casually though no one can hear me in the noise of the music. Canadian History’s own roadies are on the other side of the stage. If I stand in the shadows here, no one will see me.

“Hey.”

My eyes land on Brendon, who looks nervous but is almost jumping out of his skin with excitement. “You wanna throw it?” he asks and passes me the empty bottle. When we talked about this last night, I was just talking. I had no intention of going through with any of it.

I take the bottle, feel it heavy in my grip. Jon is not on our side of the stage, but Tom is. He is focused on the crowd though. I wouldn’t mind having another bottle to throw at Jon with. He broke his promise to me and blabbed about Brendon. But Nate is the criminal, Jon a mere accomplice. I let out a deep breath and feel butterflies in my stomach. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I let my eyes rest on Nate’s drumming form.

“You throw it,” I mumble and pass it back to Brendon.

“No, you throw it.”

“You throw it.”

“You sure?” he asks, licks his lips. His nose is not very swollen anymore, but bruises are developing on the skin surrounding the area of impact. I nod nervously, check there is no one in sight of us. This is insane. There is no real chance of killing Nate with a glass bottle to the head, is there?

Brendon tries to take even breaths. “Okay. Okay, here goes. Only one chance. Okay. Phew.”

“You can do it.”

“I can definitely do it. Yeah. Here goes.” Brendon gives me one look, and for a second, I am convinced we are insane, the fag and I. But Brendon’s face still bears the signs of the fight, and I focus on why I am doing this: my band, my crew, my tour. Just because I feel like it.

Brendon takes a few running steps before throwing the bottle across the air. I hold my breath as it hits the side of Nate’s head. The drummer slips off the stool in front of seven thousand people. The band stops playing and their roadies come running, and Tom looks around, shocked and confused, and spurts of laughter are fighting their way up my throat. This has got to be the funniest shit I have seen in –

“Shit, come on!” Brendon urges, grabs my hand and pulls me after him, and we vanish from the side of the stage and enter the maze of the backstage area. I start laughing hysterically as I try not to hit his feet with mine, and he tightens his hold of my hand as he laughs with me, glancing over his shoulder with bright eyes wild with misdemeanour.

We find the doors that lead out of the building, and suddenly we are in the back of the venue, Brendon’s overjoyed laughter bouncing from the walls back at us in the darkening evening. My own laughter mixes with his but is more monotonous and duller. “Holy shit, holy shit!” Brendon exclaims, jumps up into the air a few times. His eyebrows are high up, nearing his hair line. “Can you believe we just did that?!” His face and voice show more emotion than mine have in the past two years put together. I don’t know how he does it, but it amazes me a little.

I can’t help but feel his endless energy pour into me, making me almost happy. “I can’t. We just gotta play it cool like we don’t know anything.”

“Yeah, agreed. Okay, here,” Brendon hurries, going through his pockets to get out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips and passes me another. “We’ve been out here smoking the entire time. We know nothing.”

“Right,” I agree hurriedly, and we start smoking the cigarettes, inhaling fast to make it look like we’ve been there longer. And, sure enough, venue security rushes through the doors a minute later, looking around frantically.

“What’s going on?” I ask casually. Brendon looks down, and I know he is hiding his face to try and not let them see he is about to crack up.

“Has anyone passed through here just now? Anyone in a hurry?”

“No. Don’t think so. Brendon, have you seen anyone?”

Brendon clears his throat. “No. Just me and Ry, smoking our cigarettes, talking about... stuff.”

“Yeah, lots of stuff.”

They give us long looks but go back in. But it’s not over yet, and five minutes later, Nate and Canadian History’s manager Dan walk out. Nate has a wet, balled up towel to the side of his head. There might be a hint of red on it, and I realise we probably caused some proper damage. Nate looks as furious as he was yesterday, and he points at Brendon and says, “I know it was you!”

Brendon lifts his eyebrows, his face one of perfect innocence.

I frown and look at the manager. “What’s going on?”

Dan clears his throat uncomfortably. “Nate just got hit by, uh... a bottle. During the set. It seemed to come from the side of the stage.”

“No shit,” I gasp. “Wow, are you okay?”

“Oh, come on!” Nate barks, eyes flashing dangerously.

“He’s alright!” Dan hurries calmingly. “Spencer was kind enough to fill in for the last two songs, which the crowd seemed to like. He’s on stage right now. You know nothing about this?”

“No, man, Brendon and I have been back here for the past twenty minutes or something. We haven’t seen anyone.”

“You’re lying for him?!” Nate barks at me. And yeah, I guess I am.

“I really had nothing to do with this, though I guess it could’ve been a sign from God,” Brendon says icily. Nate takes two threatening steps towards Brendon, but I quickly step into the narrow space between the two men.

“Okay, seriously? You need to back the fuck off,” I snap. I can feel Brendon’s breath against my neck.

“This is not happening, this –” Nate vents, hands in fists.

His manager takes a hold of his arm, pulling him back, whispering, “That’s Ryan fucking Ross! _The_ Ryan Ross! You can’t fuck with him, man. Are you insane?” Nate replies with a muffled murmur consisting of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘faggots’. Dan starts leading him away, calling out, “Okay, you know nothing. We believe you! Have a good show tonight!”

“Thanks!” I say and wave. The door slams shut after them. I let out a breath and turn to Brendon, who is grinning wickedly. We totally got away with it.

“Thanks,” Brendon says quietly with a warm smile that reaches his eyes and almost makes them sparkle.

“No pro – You just said thanks.”

He smiles. “Okay, yeah. I can say thanks, but I only say it if I really, really mean it. Save it for special occasions.”

I’m a special occasion. I lick my lips nervously and focus on a trash can in the distance. “So why the foreign bullshit?”

“Makes me more interesting. I think. I’m not very interesting, so a boy’s gotta do something, right?”

He’s interesting enough without it.

Pete comes looking for us soon after. Brendon needs to go set up our gear. Pete looks between us like he knows, but we just shrug. Pete also notes that Joe wasn’t having a diva fit although I claimed he was. “Technically, he _is_ a constant diva act,” I argue. Brendon winks at me as he leaves with Pete at his trail. Luckily, Pete doesn’t notice.

The venue is surrounded by a tall metal fence, behind which is a street, and I watch people walking on the other side, living their lives, minding their own business. It’s a dog-eat-dog world on this side, and tonight, I got to bite back. I chuckle as I replay the bottle hitting Nate again and again and again.

“Ryan?”

I snap out of my precious thoughts and see Jon. He is still sweaty from their set, shirt soaked. I drop my cigarette and step on it. “Jon, hey. Heard what happened. Sucks, man.”

“Yeah, look, everyone’s really upset, and I just – You really don’t know anything about it?” His voice sounds slightly desperate. He looks at me like I would tell him the truth. He’s got nerve. He’s got some fucking nerve.

“I know nothing. But if I hear something, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Like he promised not to share Brendon’s fucking tendencies with the rest of the world. He stabs my back, I stab his. If only we had had two bottles and Jon had been on our side of the stage. I don’t like being made fun of, and he lied to my face. He –

“Look, I gotta get going,” I say harshly.

“Right, okay. Are we working on our music more tomorrow?”

His voice is perfectly sincere. Our music. The music Jon and I created. It was beautiful, but it doesn’t mean we are something beautiful. Take Lennon-McCartney, Simon-Garfunkel. Beautiful music, mutually resenting musicians behind it.

“We’ll see if I have the time,” I inform him and leave Jon out in the cold.

I don’t need to throw a bottle at Jon to know that I’ve hit him hard. I bump into a hurrying Brendon backstage, and he gives me the biggest smile. I instantly smile back, looking over my shoulder to where he disappears with a roll of duck tape.

You win some, you lose some. Right now, I mostly feel like I’ve won.


	5. Petty Thieves

Jon apologises to all of our crew on our day off in Cleveland. The rest of Canadian History’s crew hangs out behind him in the busy hotel lobby, feigning ignorance of our existence. Spencer focuses on the message that was waiting for him when we arrived, eyes going over the short note over and over again, probably from his parents again, telling him not to forget their anniversary this year. I’m glad that I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck.

Jon is solemn as he addresses us. “I speak for all of us, Nate included, when I say I’m sorry about what happened in St. Louis. He lost control, though I am sure that’s no excuse. We’ve still got three shows with you guys, we want to enjoy them in good spirits, and though no one knows what happened in Indianapolis last night, I am sure Nate has learned his lesson. So I hope there’ll be none of that anymore,” Jon concludes and sends a significant look to us all.

It could have been anyone of us, except Joe who would never avenge a gay roadie. Even Brent might have taken the bottle in his hand because he loves fucking around with people.

“So we’re sorry. I hope you can accept our apology. Especially you, Brendon.”

Brendon nods solemnly, but shoots me a look that clearly says he’s not buying Jon’s bullshit. I send him a look that says Brendon better not, and Brendon smiles, all appreciative and warm like I’m the only one there who gets him. Well, I don’t, but we outsiders stick together.

After Jon has left, we hang out in the hotel lounge with the whole crew and a few girls, and it has given us some sort of solidarity to have agreed on one asshole. We bash Nate and make jokes about drummers’ IQs, much to the annoyance of Spencer, who seems agitated. No wonder, with this insane fucking tour. Brendon’s bruises are at the point where they won’t get any worse and will slowly start fading.

We’re not upset because Nate called Brendon a cocksucker. We’re upset because one of our guys got into a fight.

Despite Jon’s efforts to make peace, we don’t invite Canadian History out with us. A van is waiting outside the hotel to take us all to a party someone is throwing for us. It’s not at a club but at someone’s country mansion a twenty minute ride away. The only reason I am choosing it over brooding in my hotel room is because Brendon insisted that I go with him. He made it clear that he would only go if I went too, and well, the kid needs to see the world a little, doesn’t he?

William has covered Brendon’s bruises with some make up, and I cannot believe that William is not the gay one, especially when he takes half an hour figuring out what to wear, causing us to be late.

Spencer decides to come along the last minute too. It’s our night off, and we don’t get many of these on tour. He rubs his hands together and says it’s a night unlike any other.

The mansion is enormous. We park the van out front, and they are expecting us. People – boys, girls, hippies, rockers, music lovers, drunk, high, young, beautiful, clothed, barely dressed and everything in between – come rushing towards us, grabbing us by the arms and tugging us along, saying, “Welcome!” and “Oh my god!” and “Joe, can I touch your hair?” Someone just screams. Brendon turns to me with an astonished look in his eyes, and I shrug like it’s no big thing. We are the star attraction at this party.

The house is full of people. Three steps into the foyer, and I have a drink in my hand and someone offers me coke. Spencer’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Ryan, you know how coke messes you up.”

“Yeah,” I admit grudgingly, and the guy asks, “You sure?”

I nod and hope Brendon’s not the dancing kind, because I’m not. Nah, we just need a few beers and –

“I’ll have some!” Brendon volunteers, beaming at the guy with the coke.

“Far out, man,” the guy responds with an easy smile, and the two take off, and I stare after Brendon in astonishment.

I let him go. Brendon’s a kid; he deserves to have some fun. Okay, so we’re probably the same age, but he’s still a kid when it comes to rock and our lifestyle. Coke might suit him.

Pete has two girls draping over him, and he looks amazed. Everyone is walking in different directions now, and Pete looks around, alarmed, calling out, “Guys! Guys, remember we need to leave by –”

I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as Spencer and I head to the doors that lead outside to the swimming pool. Naked girls are splashing in the water, and even Spencer has a hard time looking away from them. He smiles like he’s a part of some big joke where he knows the punch line and no one else does. Some local musicians are there, and I end up getting drunk with Eric Carmen of The Raspberries. I keep waiting for Brendon to come back. It doesn’t take half an hour to get coked up. And he wouldn’t ditch me, would he? He asked me to come, to keep him company. Where the hell is he?

“The matching outfits create a sense of unity,” Eric explains, trying to justify his band’s commercialism and sixties’ attitude. There’s a big difference between a group and a band. He’s a has-been, anyway. I am above him musically and intellectually. I’m the fucking main songwriter of The Followers. When was the last time this guy saw a girl faint in the front row, screaming his name? Never? For me it was yesterday.

“Excuse me,” I say and leave him where he is. Spencer calls after me, but he’ll manage. Girls are all over him, and maybe tonight he will finally move the fuck on. Haley wasn’t even that pretty.

Brendon finds me before I find him. I know these types of parties, but I still figured me and him would grab a few beers, find a quiet corner, sit around and talk, reminisce our victory with the bottle. He’d laugh at my stupid jokes, tell me how he thinks I’m alright. It feels like the biggest compliment I’ve gotten all year. And he’d be there not because of the hype or my fame, but because he wants to be, even if he knows I’m all talk and nothing else. Even if he’s seen my hands shaking before going on stage. He wouldn’t mind.

He barely sees me, though, bumping into me and then just walking on. “Bren, hey,” I stop him, snatching his wrist, and he turns his head to look at me. I can feel his pulse beneath my fingertips, a rapid speed that echoes through his hot skin.

He wipes his face and tries to focus. “Ryan! Shit, dude.” He’s tripping on something big time. “It’s like that, you know, like that.”

“Uh huh,” I agree and let go of him.

“Fucking great party! I’ll see you on the flip side!” he beams and hurries away.

All the people present want to hang out with me. The one guy I want to hang out with doesn’t.

* * *

The van we came in looks like a black bug on the driveway of the house. The mansion. Something in between. I look at it from the tall windows of the third floor, and a naked girl runs across the lawn and onto the gravel of the driveway. She laughs and swirls around with a champagne bottle in her hand, long hair blowing in the wind and her revealed breasts bouncing, and a naked man chases after her. I look closer, and I am pretty sure the guy is Brent. I try not to snort. They run around the van, looking like even smaller insects circling a big one.

I turn back around to face the dark library. I pour a drink and sit on the windowsill, enjoying the relative quiet. I can still hear the party, though, from a few floors below. I know I should be there. I know that we’re the attraction. We’re in the swimming pool, we’re in the pool room, we’re everywhere, they are everywhere, and this is one of those nights you will think back to and say, “God! Remember that one insane night when we...?”

But I am in the library with the quiet, the drink, and my best friend.

“Give me a hit,” Spencer says, sitting on the windowsill next to me.

“ _Billy, Don’t Be A Hero_.”

“Not that kind of hit,” he says, but we laugh anyway. He lays my notebook open in his lap and starts reading, squinting to read the text in the moonlight. “Is that... olreem?”

I lean over. “Dream.”

“Your handwriting is fucking horrible,” he grins happily, but keeps reading, extending an absent hand towards me.

“I don’t have any left,” I admit.

“My stash is gone too. God, can’t believe we’re this famous and still don’t have any grass.”

“Just check the lyrics, alright? I want your opinion while you’re in such a good mood.”

“I’m in a good mood most of the time!” he argues.

“No, you’re really not.”

He just chuckles, and I pour him a drink in the fancy crystal glass we found in the next room over. I wanted Spencer to party like he never has before, but when he got rid of the girls and asked me if I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t have said yes sooner. Pathetic, really, but he’s not moping around like me. He keeps grinning like he is having the best of times.

It’s comforting. Spencer still enjoys my company. I was starting to think he didn’t.

Spencer hums and nods, makes a few ‘eh’ sounds, and I stare out of the window at our bug van. The house is full of people, but their cars are not out front. I don’t really know where anything is, the place is too big for me to figure out when I’m drunk. Maybe their cars are in the back. Or maybe they live here. Maybe this house is a magical place where everyone stays beautiful, everyone is young, the supplies of substances are endless, and the party never, ever ends. Maybe this is that place. Well, it’s a hell of a heaven.

Spencer says, “This is pretty good. Like... about an innocent criminal or maybe a slave. Or both. The narrator has got a strong voice. Do you have any melodies in your head for this?”

“I’ll write music around it. Or we will. Maybe.”

“Brent will only demand a bass solo,” Spencer laughs and takes a sip of his drink. “And Joe will try to steal the show as always.”

“What about a drum solo?”

“I thought it went without saying,” he grins. “This bit, though. _The fire to survive and defy that flickers in the brownest of eyes_. It’s too vague and detailed. Whose brown eyes? There is no talk of a specific someone until that bit. It just throws it off a bit, takes the song from purely abstract ideas of freedom and rights to a song about some chick.”

“I’ll work on it,” I promise, and he passes the notebook back to me. I tap the cover nervously. Brown eyes, brown eyes. “This party is good for us. We need a break from each other.”

Spencer nods for emphasis, doesn’t even try claiming we should just hang out more because somewhere deep down this band is still full of love. Guess even the most positive of us get tired, and it’s no wonder since the tension on the bus is getting more and more unbearable, now even following us on stage. Brent’s dressing room crackers and Joe’s own mic were always temporary solutions. Pete will fix it. It’s his job, but I’m not sure if I want him to do it. The band is beginning to feel more and more like an adopted child that I never learned to consider as my own.

“It’s a beautiful night. The world’s amazing, don’t you think?” Spencer muses happily.

“I don’t know what you’re on, but I want some.”

“Seriously,” he insists. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. I love you too.” He smiles at me, giving my shoulder a squeeze. I stare. “This is awkward.”

He rolls his eyes.

Laughter flows through the double doors of the library, which open suddenly, and a man and a girl stumble in. The girl throws her arms around the man’s neck, and I call out, “Hey, if you’re not gonna ask us to join, find someplace else.” The couple starts giggling and calls out apologies as they leave, the doors remaining open. The noise of the party reaches us louder than before, the lights of the corridor creeping into the library and casting long shadows on us, mocking me for wanting to remain in the dark.

“You can go if you want,” I tell Spencer. “I won’t mind.”

“Nah. I’m happy right here. I think I’ve kind of moved beyond these parties, you know? You gotta grow up some time. Turn a new page, take responsibility. I’m not for these kinds of parties.”

He used to be. I used to be too, when the circles were smaller. I don’t know anyone anymore.

“I could really do with a joint,” I suddenly conclude. “Brendon owes me one. I’ll go get one, bring it back.” If I can find him. If he’s not too coked out. “He could come hang out with us. He could. Would you mind?” I ask, and Spencer shakes his head. I’ve noticed they get along, Brendon and Spencer. That’s good. Not that Spencer could get Brendon the way I could if I wanted to. I don’t think Brendon would tell Spencer the things he’s told me. I look around the library and tilt my head, feel the sudden swoosh of alcohol in my system. “I like this library. We could be the Three Musketeers if Brendon came too. Look, I’ll go get him. If you don’t mind.”

I leave on my quest to find him somewhere in this huge mansion, the enormous grounds, and it’s a bit like trying to find a needle in the haystack. Brendon invited me. It’s plain rude if he doesn’t plan on hanging out with me, for fuck’s sake. The corridor is decorated with paintings and statues of Roman or Greek gods. I never did know the difference between Venus and Minerva. Or Aphrodite. Whoever.

I go down flights of stairs and am finally in a spacious living room on the ground floor. All the couches are occupied, angry guitar riffs pumping through half a dozen speakers, mixing with the chattering of a hundred, two hundred people. It’s gotten wilder since our arrival. Girls are dancing shirtless, sweat rolling between their breasts, down their stomachs, around their belly buttons. White lines disappear from coffee tables, and alcohol travels from bottles to veins. I don’t see anyone from our crew in the foyer, so I walk in further, feeling like I am observing everyone from behind a glass. I spot one familiar face in the next room.

“Andy! Hey, you seen Brendon?”

Andy is on the couch with a pink-haired girl, telling her a story as she laughs and says, “No way! No way!”

Andy says, “He was with William!”

“Ryan!” the pink-haired one says. “Ryan, join us!”

“I’m looking for one of our guys.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. Come on, honey, sit down with us! Or if you want to go someplace more private...”

I take a second look at her and break into a drunken smile. “Audrey! Hey, your hair!”

“Is pink!” she enthuses. I know her, but I am not sure if I’ve fucked her. Maybe. Probably. Surely, I’d remember. Or would I? She’s one of the groupies everyone knows. She’s famous in her own way.

Audrey’s got Jac’s habit of excessive makeup, but she is a beautiful girl with big eyes circled with eyeliner, a narrow nose and slightly hollow cheeks, and her hair is like a lion’s mane with stripes of pink and blonde. Her clothes barely cover her, and she has positioned herself like a worm and I am the fish. We’re all fish when she walks into the room. Someone said that all she knows she learned from the girl who inspired Keith to write _Ruby Tuesday_. Andy tightens his hold over her shoulders like he could actually hold onto her, and Audrey smiles at me, big and happy and pink. Andy’s girlfriend had every right to be worried about the free-spirited groupies. “Andy said that maybe me and a few other girls would have room on the bus?”

“Oh, can’t promise that. Maybe. I don’t know. Possibly. For how long?”

“Would like to get to Detroit. I’ve promised David we’d join his crew there.”

“Yeah, right! Man. Fuck, I forgot he’s touring over here now. How is the English bastard?”

“Fabulous,” she purrs. I tell her to talk to Pete and that she has my blessing. We’ll be in Detroit in just a few days, and Joe will be thrilled to have a few of the girls with us. He might even get off my back when he can orchestrate orgies in hotel rooms. “Ryan, stay,” Audrey pouts.

Andy has been trying to hit on her for an hour, maybe. I’m not heartless enough to let him have done it for nothing. It’s more than what Brent or Joe would do. I refuse, and Andy points me to where he last saw William. I circle around the room, decline pussy, alcohol, a threesome, a variety of drugs and endless invitations to sit down and hang out with people I don’t know, but they all know me.

Everywhere, the windows are wide open, but it’s not enough to get rid of the sweat and smoke, and after one round, I decide to check out the next room. The smell of sweat mixes with sex long before my eyes adjusts to the dark. It’s like an ants’ nest with the way people move over each other, tangling up together. A girl gets off, her moans ringing out the loudest. Everyone is naked. All the surfaces are taken – the couches, the table, and they are kissing, touching, licking and trying a bit of everything. I am most definitely overdressed for this orgy. I walk in, the naked skin blurring in my eyes. It’s slow and sensual, fast and hard only with the men and women who are riding for the climax. The back corner is in a red glow from a shirt that has been thrown over a lamp. I see Joe there with three girls around his armchair. The redhead is sucking his cock. He is completely shitfaced. I rub my eyes, push off someone’s hands going to my fly. The room is unreal, but this isn’t the first one of these I’ve seen during my astounding career.

“Joe,” I say loudly, and Joe pulls back from exchanging a slow kiss with one of his girls. He is still getting a blowjob, and he presses the girl’s head down with the palm of his hand, shifting his hips slightly.

“Swallow it, baby,” he murmurs before his head drops to the left, eyelids drooping. “Hmm?”

I try not to look at him. I do not want to see Joe getting head, even if I’ve walked in on him fucking a handful of times in my life and vice versa, even if that one time we fucked those girls at the same time in the dressing room on our first tour. That was fine, we were still friends, we laughed it off later and called the girls sluts. It was hot seeing that chick get fucked while I was screwing her friend.

But this is the new world, me a drunken mess and him a coked out king of guitar solos, and I can feel my insides twist like snakes just being here now to see what he’s turned into it. What we turn these girls into.

I don’t remember why I came here. It was something important. Something pink. “Audrey’s here! Yeah, man, she’s here. And she and her girls want to come along with us to Detroit.”

“Sweeeeet,” he groans. He might not have understood me. I’m pretty sure Joe and I haven’t even talked to each other in two days.

“You seen William around? Or Brendon?”

He shakes his head. “Find a few girls, Ross. Find a few for Smith too. Maybe you wouldn’t be so damn uptight if you did.”

I glare at him. “Thanks for the advice.”

When I leave the room, my dick is hard, pressing against my thigh demandingly. I get myself a drink and hear that some guys are playing music on the second floor. It seems like a decent bet, so I make my way over, people swarming over me even more now, and maybe my hard-on is pretty well outlined through the fabric, but I don’t care. I find William and, to my surprise, Pete, who is fucked out of his mind. A party like this seems to be enough for him to stop playing our boss and start drinking, fucking and taking drugs until he throws up behind a couch somewhere. Pete has a guitar, and girls are singing along, all out of tune. It’s one of our songs. My words. My feelings. They take them, mould them, misunderstand them. It’s a room full of petty thieves.

“Where’s Brendon?” I ask William, and he points to the balcony.

“Yes, I _am_ a Gemini! How did you know?” Pete laughs to one of the girls.

It’s nearly three in the morning and it has started raining outside. The air is just on the border of warm and chilly, but it’s refreshing. The balcony is big, and I don’t see Brendon as I walk to the railing, lean against it and stare at the full swimming pool below, at the people. I turn back and focus my eyes on the balcony’s dark corner where Brendon is with some guy.

I close my eyes. Focus. Must focus. I reopen them.

They are kissing heatedly. Brendon’s hands are in this guy’s hair. I hear the wet smacks of their tongues and lips clashing together. The guy is taller than him, around my height but muscular with a thick neck and large hands. Brendon is cornered, trapped. Brendon is pushing his crotch forwards. The guy murmurs something in a low, hormone-filled voice, and Brendon replies a breathy, “Yeah.” He sounds turned on. I nearly shiver. The man moves to suck on Brendon’s neck, cupping his crotch, and I watch as Brendon’s eyes flutter shut and he moves to the pressure of the man’s hand in small, rocking movements.

I look away, rub my eyes, wish I was drunker. I swirl around. Brendon’s not seen me. I’m still hard.

I haven’t been invited to watch this show. I need to leave. I am not interested in watching Brendon –

He groans, and my chest constricts. I quickly walk back inside to the out of tune singing and laughter, accepting the joint a girl is quick to offer me. A joint’s a joint. It doesn’t matter. Brendon’s out there, having found some guy that beats talking to me a million times over.

I go to the first bathroom I find. I lock the door, light the joint with shaking hands, lean against the wall and let it hang between my lips. I inhale. It’s strong. I take in too much too fast, and I end up coughing. I take another hit and close my eyes. My mind swirls. My hands shoot down, unzip my jeans, and I pull my hard cock out. The joint shakes against my lips as my groans push their way from my throat, my fist a blurred movement of up, down, up, down up down up down updown, slight twist there, and my fingers squeeze my burning flesh. I come instantly. I shudder from the force, my hips bucking into my hand, cock twitching.

“Aw, fuck. Fuck,” I sigh in the euphoria that follows my release. The joint falls from my lips. I try to wipe my hand on a towel, but end up on my knees instead, puking into the toilet.

* * *

Women were not allowed on ships because of superstition, but this is not at all true for tour buses. Women are very welcome here, or at least girls like Audrey, Meryl and Louvre. They’ve already chosen their targets. Groupies often do. I gave them all the brush off because I’m not lonely. I don’t need one of them to run in circles around me, calling me baby and giving me blowjobs and making me feel like I’m the most special thing on this side of the universe. Louvre, who claims to be French Canadian but I am pretty sure I can hear a Texan accent under there, has chosen Brent. Audrey, much to Andy’s disappointment, has chosen Joe. Meryl is slowly realising that Spencer isn’t warming up to her, which will probably leave her banging one of the roadies for the next two days.

The crew is still packing up the bus after our Cleveland show. We left them to it and took the girls, who spent the show cheering for us by the stage, and came back to start a party. Their cheerful and excited female voices feel like a wave of fresh air, and though I sit on one of the two lounge armchairs and say nothing, I have a small smile on my face. Their soothing presence is doing wonders for my hangover. Pete walks over to me and kneels down, giving me a confidential look.

“Meryl’s groovy,” he says quietly as the rest of our party keep on talking and laughing.

“She is,” I agree, casting a look at the skinny girl with long, brown curls. Pete gives me a cocky smile. “And?” I ask in confusion.

“Just saying, man, you’re our star and you deserve the best. I didn’t get you your own bed for nothing, right?” he winks, and I stare at my beer bottle. “Meryl, girl, come over here! Keep Ryan company!”

Meryl instantly skips over, clearly overjoyed that she might win the big grand prize after all. Pete winks again and leaves us to it, like all he needs to have a happy singer-guitarist is to make sure I orgasm twice a day. “Hi,” Meryl says and smiles sweetly. “You want another beer?”

“Yeah, sure.” I give in. This is how they do it: they start with the little things, beer, food, making sure you’re comfortable. Then they are asking you to trust them with bigger things, to look after your wardrobe, hotel keys, make you think that you can no longer function without their help. Meryl brings me a beer and keeps standing by my chair, chatting away happily. Another beer, and I let her sit on my lap, my arm wrapped around her waist. She weighs next to nothing. She looks at me like I’m beautiful.

Joe and Audrey come to me, tangled up together. “Ryan, man,” Joe slurs, “mind if we use your room for ten minutes?”

“Ten?!” Audrey protests.

“It doesn’t take long when you know what you’re doing,” Joe winks at her.

“Go for it,” I mutter lifelessly.

Audrey and Joe disappear just as the roadies finally get on the bus. Pete fusses around, making sure everyone and everything is ready. “Who’s driving?”

“I am,” Brendon says, lifting his hand. His voice instantly attracts my attention. I avoided him today. Not sure why. It’s not like he knows I saw him on the balcony last night, and secondly, it’s not like it even matters if I avoid him because since when have we been attached from the hip? Never. I barely know the guy. But he looks my way with Meryl draping over me, and he frowns, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t let her sit on my lap after all. But it’s nothing to the way I am sure he got laid last night. With that guy, whoever he was. Muscular. Handsome. The type Brendon is apparently into.

I wrap my twig arm around Meryl tighter.

“You met the girls?” Pete asks the roadies. Us and the girls spent the day fucking about one of the hotel rooms, feeling like big stars. The only roadie that dropped by was Andy. Pete starts pointing. “That’s Louvre, that’s Meryl, and Audrey is in the back with Joe. Girls, meet Brendon, William, Zack and you know Andy already.” The girls wave and bat their eyelashes.

“Did you say Audrey? _The_ Audrey?” William asks, clearly impressed. Even groupies have a hierarchy. She won’t tour with just anyone, and when she was on the road with us for a week on our last tour, we all knew it meant we were heading for the stars.

“Audrey?” Brendon asks in confusion, and William instantly offers to tell him every band he knows she’s toured with. The list is long.

Joe and Audrey take an hour in the back room, in my bed. I don’t want to go back there and so I tell Joe to feel free to crash there until the sheets get washed. Joe is delighted and smiles at me for the first time on this tour. I’m reminded of the summer in the early days of the band when Joe and I lived together to save money. We had fun back then, going out together, having a good and reckless time, perfectly unknown, aspiring musicians, going back to our tiny place and taking turns of who gets to use the bedroom. This is a messed up version of the same game, but with different rules. It’s not friendship anymore, but rivalry. It used to be something sincerer, and I think Joe and I both remember that for a split-second. I loved the man like a brother.

Joe looks away from me like he’s been burned by fire, and I focus on Meryl, who squirms in my lap, leans to my ear and whispers, “I can do bunks. I’m really flexible.”

I tilt my head to the side and peer at her. “How about the dirty toilet of the next venue? Or better yet, you wanna fuck on stage?”

She blinks. She laughs. I wasn’t kidding.

We stay up into the night with Brent and Louvre now going to the back room. Audrey and Joe go to the toilet for five minutes. No one really pays attention where they go fuck and what they do, and Meryl looks at me with a silent question in her eyes, which I ignore. I enjoy sex just as much as the next guy, but it’s never been some sort of primitive animal instinct with me. I can go without sex for a month. Yup. A whole month before I feel like I really need to get laid. Joe can go without it for sixteen hours.

It’s a little past four in the morning when I feel the bus slow down and come to a stop after Spencer goes up to say he needs to piss and Joe and Audrey are occupying the toilet. Zack and I get out of the bus that now stands on the side of the road. Meryl looks like she doesn’t know if she should follow me. In the end, she doesn’t.

Zack sighs and rolls his shoulders, and I can hear joints crackling. Brendon is not too far away, smoking a cigarette. “You okay to drive?” Zack calls out.

“Yeah, man, we’ll be in Detroit in an hour.”

I can see Spencer’s outline not too far away, taking a leak. A bus stops behind ours, Canadian History clearly following our example. Their bus is from the late 60’s, a joke compared to ours. It hisses to a stop, and a few guys come out to stretch their legs. It’s dark, and I can’t tell where we are. Somewhere in between cities, in the middle of nowhere.

Brendon walks over to me, offering his half-burnt cigarette. I know Zack is standing right next to us, like it matters somehow that he can see me talking to one of the other roadies. I don’t feel comfortable as I decline the smoke with a shake of my head.

“Should you be driving? You got kind of messed up last night,” I tell him as casually as I can.

“Not that messed up,” he protests. He doesn’t even sound sorry. I went to that fucking party only to please him, and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge that at all. Fucking fag. Only runs after drugs and cock. What did I expect, anyway? That I had made a friend in him? Yeah, hardly.

Jon’s voice says, “Ryan, can I talk to you?”

I turn around and see Jon’s silhouette in the moonlight. Not the guy I want to talk to right now, but I follow him to the side of the road anyway, hear the gravel beneath our feet. He stops when we’re out of earshot.

Jon sighs restlessly in the dark. I’m glad I can’t see his face.

“Should we talk? The whole thing with Nate and Brendon, it’s just left a bad vibe, you know? Call me crazy, but it kind of feels like you’re avoiding me.”

“Are we fucking married?” I ask him pointedly. “We wrote a few mediocre songs I’m already wishing I hadn’t written. Jesus, Walker, try to put the thing into perspective.”

“Mediocre?” He sounds disbelieving. “We both love the stuff we wrote.”

“You thought wrong,” I shoot at him. Spencer was right about Jon. Spencer was right like he always is. “I was just trying to get some time away from the band. You were, like, going for a long walk or free therapy. Whatever. So tell me why would I want to work with you after the stunt you pulled on me?”

“Sorry?”

The clouds shift from in front of the moon, and Jon looks so confused that I have to resist the urge to beat some sense into him.

“I told you about Brendon, and then you blabbed it to Nate after you said you wouldn’t, and look what happened! Do you think I _need_ the extra stress of my crew getting attacked? I mean, if I can’t trust you with that, then how could I with my music? Get a fucking reality check.” He looks astonished. I am done. I have nothing more to say to the guy.

I walk past him, and he says, “I didn’t tell anyone! I swear I didn’t tell Nate!”

“Sure you didn’t. Go fuck yourself, Walker,” I mutter with a middle finger raised over my shoulder. The idiot fucking lies about it too. If he had manned up, then I might have considered it. Jon Walker is a damn talented guy, and if he is even half as ruthless as he has proven himself to be, then he will succeed wonderfully in the music world, and his success will burn far too bright for me to be anywhere near it. The Followers, the four of us plus Pete, are not particularly ruthless. We’re just lucky, after which we have become arrogant. And there is a crucial difference between that and innate ruthlessness. Guys like Walker need to stay far away from me.

Zack and Brendon have gotten back on the bus, and I take the four steps up. Brendon is behind the wheel and is tuning the radio. I hear the girls laughing in the lounge. “Night,” I mutter to Brendon, not looking forward to my night of refuge in Joe’s bunk. Fuck, I hate bunks. The sheets better smell like baby angels, and Meryl better not think she is welcome to join me.

“Hey, wait,” Brendon hurries out, and I cross my arms and lift a disinterested eyebrow at him. “Uh, I kinda overheard you and Jon talking just now. Just wanna say that... I appreciate it. The thing you did. Loyalty. I know there’s not much around here, so tack.”

“Tack? Not enough for a proper thank you?” I ask, voice full of sarcasm.

Brendon stands up, smiling like he doesn’t care I’m being a bitch to him. By now, I’ve noticed he does that. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Tack.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. I didn’t do it for him. I didn’t do it for loyalty. At most, I did it because I’m pissed off at myself, at him, Jon, Joe, Pete, whoever. And it was easy to take it all out on Jon because he embodied my aimless frustration.

“Whatever,” I mutter. Brendon smiles, and something flutters inside me, and it feels like we’re okay again, if we ever were not-okay, or if there ever was a state in which we were okay.

I go back to the lounge, reclaiming my seat with a lighter heart. Meryl has moved on to sit on the couch next to Zack, who seems rather chuffed to have an is-she-even-twenty groupie admiring his biceps. “Everybody on board?” Brendon asks, taking the headcount. He lists names under his breath as Audrey comes from the bunks with a huge smile on her face.

“I found Pete’s stash!” she giggles excitedly and shows the small bag of grass, and Joe claps to praise her snatching abilities. Pete is going to be pissed when he wakes up.

Then, suddenly, Brendon sees Audrey, and Audrey sees him, and both freeze. Audrey goes as white as a ghost, her mouth hanging open with disbelief all over her face. Brendon stares across the room and manages to say, “Al –”

“Audrey!” the pink-haired girl rushes out, recovering quickly and putting a huge smile on her face. Her eyes, though, are void of all merriment. “I don’t think we have met?”

“Oh. Right. Audrey,” Brendon mutters, as if to memorise it. “Right. One of the, uh... one of the girls.” Brendon appears to be in shock. “The girls with the... the girls that... with bands. With _all_ those bands. You are. You’re one of those.”

I look between the two in confusion.

“Even Brendon’s smitten,” Brent laughs, nudging Joe’s side.

Audrey instantly catches the name, her rigid form loosening slightly. “Brendon. The roadie, right? It never occurred to me that – that you’d... Not that I’ve. It’s not like it’s a common name. I mean. Hey, you want some pot?” Audrey dangles the bag again, the movement too eager to cover up her attempt to change the subject.

“I gotta drive, so...”

Audrey mouths a silent ‘okay’ and busies herself with the hem of her shirt. Brendon turns his attention elsewhere. “You guys might want to stay awake for an hour. We’ll be at the Detroit hotel soon enough.”

“You okay?” I ask Brendon.

“Uh huh,” he hurries out, flashing me a fake smile and exiting the lounge.

No one really seems to have paid attention to the exchange. Audrey takes her place by Joe, but she looks shaken up. The bus takes off again, and I decide to stay awake until we’re at the hotel. Audrey keeps glancing to the front of the bus.

Spencer has gone to bed so I go sit by Brent, who is the best next thing. “Did it seem to you like Brendon and Audrey knew each other?”

“No?” he asks like I’m an idiot. “Please. Like some gay kid from San Fran would know the groupie goddess. Here, take a hit. It’s even sweeter because it’s Pete’s.” Brent grins at me, and I end up smoking with him.

I can hear Brendon singing along to the radio. He’s all alone, driving across America. “I feel sorry for the kid,” I tell Brent, not really sure when I decided that Brendon must be lonely despite having friends and lovers. Maybe I decided that when he was curled up and leaning against the café door, voice trembling and my cigarette shaking between his bloodied fingers.

“I feel sorry for anyone who sucks another guy’s cock,” Brent deadpans, and I chuckle. This is exactly why I love the man.

“We should be nicer to him,” I conclude nonetheless, and Brent makes a sound that isn’t a yes or a no, but definitely leans more to the no. It’s ‘what do you care?’, and the answer is that I don’t know. But Spencer told me to fix him, and Spencer is usually right about everything, so I’ll try. I’ll give it a shot.

Audrey keeps shooting worried looks to the front of the bus. She and Brendon might have fooled the others, but not me.


	6. Stars in Cities

I sleep in the next day, having managed to push interview duty onto a willing Joe and a resentful Spencer. My hotel room has windows to the river, and I smoke a morning cigarette in the nude and watch Canada on the other side. We’re heading over there after Detroit.

Tonight’s show is sold out. Tomorrow’s too. Pete said that the longer we are on this tour, the more our album is getting played, the more the word spreads, the more sold out shows lie ahead of us. And the biggest venue we’re hitting now has the capacity of thirteen thousand, but the tour after this? Maybe even twenty thousand. Pete’s eyes shone as he said it, and I don’t know when this band’s success stopped being my dream and began being his instead.

Someone knocks on the door, and I pull on some underwear as I go to open it, expecting breakfast but getting Zack instead. “You’re not breakfast,” I observe.

“I’m the next best thing,” he deadpans, pushing past me. Zack goes to the suitcase I have in the corner and begins to throw clothes on the bed. I’ve never figured out who Zack works for. Is he Pete’s minion when he does stuff like this - forcing me to eat, to get dressed, to take better care of myself? Or does that make him my bitch? Zack probably just works for himself.

“What are you doing?” I ask him pointedly.

“We’ve got time to kill before soundcheck, so let’s see what Detroit has to offer.”

“Not interested.”

“Yes, you are,” he states as he compares one of my floral-patterned shirts with the next. “We’re all going. Even Spencer is excited to go. He’s been really happy lately, have you noticed? The kid’s weird. Weirder than you.”

“Hey!”

Zack ignores me. “Anyway, the girls want to go shopping for Bowie, and basically, it’ll be really good for the crew to just chill out for a bit. But what’s the point if Ryan is moping in his hotel room, not talking to anyone as usual? No point at all. This shirt,” he decides and shoves it at me. “Ten minutes, meet us in the lobby.”

I scoff. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Zack lifts an eyebrow and shoves me backwards with a push of his hand. “You think?”

Twelve minutes later, we cram into four taxis and take a ten minute ride to some hip clothes boutique Audrey demands we visit. We spot a music shop right next to it, and our team is divided into two as the girls plus William and Brent, who is obsessed with Louvre, go check out clothes. William squeals more than the girls do, and seriously, he is so in the closet that, if he were any further in it, the bastard would be in Narnia.

The rest of us head to the music store to mess around with the gear.

Brendon and Audrey don’t glance at each other. Why would they? Brendon wouldn’t want to fuck her, anyway. In daylight, I see much clearer, and the things I thought I saw in the middle of the night after an exhausting show seem nothing more than just a bit on this side of ridiculous.

They recognise us in the music shop, the owner throwing out other customers and temporarily closing down the place so we can browse without being harassed by fans.

“Why don’t I have a double-necked guitar?” Joe asks demandingly while I fall in love with an ES-335. Spencer’s made himself comfortable behind the drum kit at the back, just messing around.

“You know any songs about Detroit?” I call out to him, sitting down on a stool and picking the strings of the Gibson.

Spencer scratches his head thoughtfully. Yeah, why would anyone write a song about this place?

“Detroit City,” Brendon says, having armed himself with a Gibson Explorer. “Bobby Bare, sixties song?” We all blink at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Jesus, don’t you rockers know any country music? Here, you’ll recognise it when you hear it. Can I get a twelve string?” One of the workers rushes to get him one. Brendon strums a few chords on it. “So it goes like this. I wanna go home... I wanna go home...”

I recognise the song, Spencer already having picked up the tempo. He drums the simple rhythm, and I start playing along with Brendon. Brendon grins when he sings, “I dreamed about that boy who’s been waiting for so long,” and I roll my eyes as he modifies the lyrics and makes the country song gay friendly. Andy is making up a bass line, and Joe cracks up, starting to add heavy solos between the choruses. Zack and Pete let us jam as they stay by the main doors of the shop. I look over my shoulder and realise a crowd of people has gathered outside.

They’ve found us. Simple, really. A fan walks by, sees us, runs to the nearest payphone to call his local radio station, the host tells every rock fan in the city who is tuned in, and they come swarming.

But now, the audience is outside and not in my face. And we used to play around and jam so much on our previous tours, but we don’t anymore. Magically, we are doing it, and it feels good. It has the spark of enjoyment we used to have. Joe shouts a rocky, “Yeah!” and I laugh and shake my head.

We all join Brendon in the last chorus of, “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, oh I wanna go home, I wanna go home...” Spencer crashes cymbals for the hell of it.

The shop owner has fetched his camera, asking for a group picture he could frame on the wall behind the counter. We pose for him as Andy snaps the picture. The bell rings, and the girls rush in with William and our bassist. We hear screams of, “Brent! BRENT!”

“Quite a crowd out there,” Brent muses, clearly pleased. The girls and William have bags upon bags, and Pete looks slightly torn between amusement and despair. Of course, Brent paid for everything the girls bought, but who pays for it in the end? Not Brent.

“Might as well stay,” Spencer suggests, and I shrug, and we start a new song as Brent takes over bass. We haven’t jammed in a long time, but in the cosy music shop in downtown Detroit, we seem to find the same tune. Louvre sits on the counter, her feet dangling and three inch platform shoes banging against the front slightly, and she looks at Brent adoringly. Meryl is showing William her new headband.

We’re in the middle of a song with Brent providing the rather crude vocals when I notice Brendon and Audrey in the corner. I can’t hear anything, but I can read the nervous body language, Brendon’s questioning face and Audrey’s upset one. There it is again, that tension between them that I picked up on last night. I’m not insane, at least, which is mildly comforting. They know each other, so why are they pretending they don’t?

Audrey notices me looking, and she flashes a smile at me, ending the conversation with a short comment to Brendon, who looks annoyed. Then Brendon becomes aware of their surroundings and looks as unnerved as Audrey does.

What’s the deal with those two? Not former lovers since Brendon wouldn’t put his dick in her, so what’s going on?

“Okay, the police are here!” Pete informs us as the song finishes. We all flinch.

“Shit! Hide the drugs!” Brent tells us frantically, and we all start going through our pockets in a hurry.

“No, they’re here to safely escort us back to the hotel! There’s a few hundred people out there, blocking the street.”

Joe stares in astonishment. “So now, like... we’re not against the cops but _with_ the cops? We’re with _the man_? Fuck, that is so not rock ‘n roll.”

“Call it whatever you will,” Pete shrugs. The roadies and groupies leave the shop first, and the fans outside scream though they can’t know for sure who is coming out. The police have pushed fans away from the door of the shop, and I hurry to buy the ES-335 while I can. Pete gives me a look that clearly says I don’t need the guitar, but I want it. The owner shakes our hands, eyes shining. Pete makes sure I am the last one out of the shop. I have to go last; it would feel anticlimactic otherwise. The policeman that takes me and Pete to one of the police cars pushes my head down and tells me to walk fast, and they scream, god, do they scream my name.

I get squeezed in the backseat of the car between Joe and Pete with my new guitar in a gig bag on our thighs. “The last time I was in the back of one of these, the situation was quite different,” Joe jokes. The cop driving us doesn’t look all that amused and takes off, slowly pushing through the crowd that bangs the windows. Jesus fuck.

Once we are out of the masses, the police car speeds down the road easily.

“What do you guys know about Audrey?” I casually ask my companions. Joe probably knows her the best.

“The same I know about every groupie,” Joe shrugs, which means nothing. We never know anything about them apart from the fact that they love us. “She once said she has six siblings, but that’s about it.”

“Six siblings?” I clarify, my thoughts running amuck. The car slows down in front of the hotel as one of the cops at the front kindly asks Pete not to bother the Detroit Police Department further during our visit. Pete assures them that he will keep his rock ‘n roll band at bay. His band? Right.

I spot Brendon and Audrey in the hotel lobby, my eyes taking in their faces as Audrey rushes to Joe and Brendon looks sour. The noses. The eyes. The bickering.

They couldn’t be brother and sister... could they?

* * *

Midnight showing of _Chinatown_. Brendon goes to buy the tickets with the money I give him just to be on the safe side, though I figure that all Followers fans were at the venue and we won’t bump into them here. Still, I really don’t want to sign any more album covers today.

It’s a new movie, a detective story of sorts. Some guy called Jack Nicholson stars in it, but neither one of us has ever heard of him. I look at the poster; he’s not a very attractive man either. A shooting star, clearly.

Brendon noticed the cinema from the taxi this morning, and I have my reasons to ditch my bandmates and join him. I’m also going because no one else would go with him. Even William refused after Meryl got bored of Zack and moved onto him. Well, William needs to keep up his fake straight boy image somehow.

I brush my hair that’s wet from the post-gig shower. Brendon comes back with a grin and shows me the two tickets. Once inside, I ask, “You want popcorn?”

“Sure, yeah.”

I get us popcorn and a Coke for him. I’ve got my flask of vodka in my pocket. Brendon munches on the popcorn happily as we wait to be let inside. I don’t really see the family resemblance between him and Audrey, though maybe they just have the same mother or father? Both are beautiful. Maybe that’s the similarity.

“So where are you from?” I ask him.

“I live in San Francisco,” he replies, which isn’t a reply at all.

“Huh,” I note, reaching for the popcorn he is holding. Our fingers brush as he grabs some too, and I notice it. Not in the way that I register it happening and my brain moves on to new, insightful observations, but in the way that I stop and acknowledge the brush of his fingers against mine like I’ve been waiting for it to happen all day. A few days.

I rush out, “When did you move to San Francisco?”

“About a year and a half ago?” he asks in a pondering tone.

“And before that?”

“Around,” he shrugs, and just as I am about to ask him to specify, he stops me with, “Oh, the doors are open.”

I have no chance of grilling him during the movie, which turns out to be pretty interesting. I keep glancing at Brendon, comparing his nose with Audrey’s. I just want to know what’s going on. It’s not that I find Audrey a puzzle that needs solving; it’s that I’m writing song lyrics around Brendon because he’s caught my imagination.

I make sure I reach for the popcorn only when Brendon’s own hands aren’t in it. It’s hard for me to relax when Brendon is sitting right next to me in the dark.

After the movie, I go to the toilet to empty my flask. Brendon waits for me outside, and we start walking back to where we think the hotel is. He tries to pay me back for the movie, but I refuse. I’m a hell of a lot richer than he probably is. Brendon looks up to the sky and says, “You can never see stars in cities.”

“Look a bit to your left, and you can see a star.”

He frowns, gazing at the sky, before looking back at me and bursting out laughing. “Oh, I see. You’re the star, huh?”

“Yup,” I shrug not-so-modestly. “So do you come from a big family?”

He looks surprised, but shrugs. “Depends on what you consider big.”

“Six siblings?”

“Four.”

“Ah.” A big ass family but still doesn’t match. But what does Joe know? He’s coked out half of the time, anyway. “You one of the older or younger ones or..?” I go on. Brendon laughs, a bit embarrassed and averting his eyes. “Well, I mean. Psychologists say it defines a person later in life. The middle kids are the bridge builders, for example. And the oldest are the responsible ones and so on. I didn’t have any siblings growing up so that means I’m selfish and can’t compromise.”

“I’m the youngest.”

“The wild rascal, then. And how –”

“Jesus,” Brendon laughs as we walk along.

“What?”

“You pay for the movie and popcorn, now you’re asking these getting-to-know-you questions. Why don’t we just kiss so we can officially call it a date?”

I laugh along with him, trying fast to say something. “No, man, just making small talk.” Nothing suspicious about wanting to know what his story is. Definitely not letting myself think about kissing him. Or this being a date. I don’t want either one of those things; I’m not a faggot.

“I’m sort of excited about doing the Canadian dates next. I’ve never been out of the country,” Brendon says, changing the subject so smoothly that I don’t even realise it for two blocks. Instead, I reminisce about the shows we’ve done in Montreal and how I was drunk enough to think I could speak French. I only made an ass of myself, but the crowd loved me being talkative for once.

“I think we’re lost,” I finally conclude when we clearly are not in the downtown area anymore, and I am sure nothing around our hotel looks this shabby.

“I probably should have told you I have the worst sense of direction,” Brendon admits and looks around in confusion. “But you were leading us, so –”

“You were leading us!” I argue until I realise I was following him and he was following me. Well, that doesn’t get us anywhere. I ask the first person we come across, who kindly informs us that we are completely in the wrong direction. “Tell me if you spot a cab,” I grumble as we now start going to the right direction. “My dad was a cab driver for a while after he came back from Vietnam,” I say conversationally. “Did any of your family go?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but – They wouldn’t, no. They don’t believe in that stuff.”

“War?” I clarify, and he nods.

“Shedding blood. It’s a big sin, you know?”

“No one said killing was nice,” I point out, though I bet some soldiers do get off on it. My dad never had a problem with the killing. He didn’t mind that at all. “So you don’t keep in touch?”

“Do you?” he counters before cutting me off with, “Let’s not talk about the past. It never flatters anyone. All that matters is right now when we’re pathetically lost in Detroit, and I’m hanging out with the hottest name in rock ‘n roll. Ah, the prestige I will get for this.”

“Oh, I see, you’re hanging out with me for the fame.” I grin even as his words echo in my head. The past doesn’t flatter anyone. True. Definitely true.

“Of course for the fame. You didn’t think I actually like you as a person?” Brendon asks and quirks an eyebrow at me. I shove him slightly and call him an asshole, his laughter making the night feel that much warmer. He spots a taxi and successfully hails it over, and I don’t ask any more questions of the past he refuses to talk about.

* * *

I find Brendon outside the dressing room as I come back from fetching my temporarily misplaced notebook from the bus. The roadie is leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, pale and sweating, and I stop to take the sight in. “Whoa, hey, you okay?” I ask as I hurry over, thinking he’s been beaten up again, food poisoning, lack of sleep, a drug overdose. Definitely a drug overdose.

Brendon looks up at me with big eyes, absolutely pale. “Uh...” he begins and points to the dressing room door.

“What?” My fingers curl around his shoulder, keeping him steady.

Brendon swallows. “ _David Bowie is in there_.”

“He’s here?” I ask, delighted.

“No, listen to me! _David Bowie is in there_.”

“Yup.” I blink at him. He blinks back.

“The man is like a fucking god?” he asks very slowly as if to make sure we are talking about the same person. Well, he’s certainly never been this star-struck around me. To be or not to be offended?

“I’ll introduce you,” I offer easily.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.”

I openly laugh at him, and he looks annoyed. He gingerly follows me to the dressing room, constantly looking like he is about to run the other way. He takes even breaths, reminiscent of a woman giving birth, and he fiddles with his sleeves and mutters something, clearly prepping himself for The Introduction. A party has started in the room in the ten minutes that I was away. David is the first one to spot me, breaking into a smile as I go give him a hug.

“You alright, mate?” he asks, smiling widely, still as tall and skinny as the last time, short and messy orangey hair over a mismatched pair of eyes. Brendon remains by the door, staring, as David and I launch into a discussion about different venues we both consider as our third or fourth homes. Even Brent likes David, not having forgotten the fabulous party David threw us in London on our so far only UK tour. A few more guys from David’s crew are there, having come to see us play.

“You want to come out and do a song with us?” I ask, and David nods eagerly. I feel mildly bad for asking him to come on stage on his night off, but this is what we do. Musicians are all insane and addicted to what they do. Even I am. Addicted to the hell it puts me through. And I am not the least surprised I turned out masochistic. “Oh, you gotta meet this guy,” I interrupt.

Brendon is still by the dressing room door, twisting his hands nervously. “Brendon, this is David.”

“Pleased to meet you,” David says politely, holding out a hand. Brendon looks like he wants to die because this, right here, is the happiest moment of his life and nothing will ever top it.

“You too. Definitely. Oh my god, I just – I saw you in San Francisco last year, and that show changed my life, I – You mean so much to the gay community there, you know? I swear, on Halloween I went to The Hard On, it’s, er, it’s a club in The Castro District, and half of the people there were dressed up as Ziggy. Myself included,” Brendon adds in nervously, babbling away like he is terrified of the words coming out of his mouth.

“Cheers, that’s nice to hear.”

“Yeah,” Brendon exhales dreamily. David is now looking Brendon up and down calculatedly, and I know that look. God, David’s a fucking dog.

The crowd starts screaming so loudly that it echoes to our dressing room, and I realise that Canadian History is on. After their set, they will pack up and be gone. I’d like to see Jon on stage one more time. He looks good there. The heartless bastard belongs to the stage.

It’s hard, somehow, to know that one of the men I’ve had the strongest musical bond with is leaving, and I will never see him again. Even if he was a damn douche and even if our affair was so short-lived it hardly happened. But I keep waking up with those songs stuck in my head. Goddamn Walker.

“Spencer tells me you no longer put on any makeup when you go on stage,” David says disapprovingly, and I nod to confirm it. “We can’t have that!” he gasps, and I let him sit me down and make Brendon fetch Joe’s make up kit.

I close my eyes and keep still as David begins putting makeup on me. Brendon makes approving sounds, sighing, “That is gorgeous!” every five seconds. When I open my eyes, a purple stripe decorates my face, stretching over my eyes and the bridge of my nose. David adds way too much eyeliner, and when I put on one of my feather hats, the combination is absurd.

David says, “Perfect.”

Brendon says, “You are so talented.”

“Thanks, Brendon,” he says smoothly, casting Brendon a long, long look. “Hey, you wanna go out for a fag?”

“Sorry?” Brendon frowns.

David laughs. “A cigarette. We call ‘em fags.”

Brendon blushes, and seriously? Brendon makes an “er, um,” sound as he is clearly flustered that David Bowie wants to fuck him. I’ve been asking groupies to go out for a cigarette with me for years.

William comes into the dressing room with a broad grin. “Ding, dong, the witch is gone! Or, you know, will be. Canadian History is on their way out of this tour; they’re packing up right now. Bren, Zack needs you on stage, and Pete, we’re out of the L-sized red shirts?”

The crew gets their act together and takes off, Brendon giving David an apologetic look, and David goes to the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table, and Joe gets out coke. I hear Tom and Nate’s voices outside our room and then further away. I claim that I need to warm up my voice to get away from the coke, which I know is not good for me, and I also need to be somewhere where I don’t have to acknowledge the departure of our support band.

I find a back corridor and walk up and down it as I hum under my breath, going high, high, high, low, low, low.

“Ryan.”

I swirl around and silently curse my luck. I didn’t want to see Jon. He’s sweaty from their set, but there is a harshness to his jaw line and usually warm eyes. “Here,” Jon says bluntly and presses a piece of paper to my hand. I look down and see a number.

“Whose is this?”

“Mine. It’s for my place in Chicago for the day you realise what you let slip by you. Because those songs we wrote? They were fucking amazing.” Jon cocks an eyebrow at me and turns around, walking out of my life for good with a hell of a lot more arrogance than he had walking into it.

I look at the piece of paper and scoff. Like I’ll need this. Jon needs to be brought down a notch or two. Or twelve. Like I’d go running back to him? Please.

I let the note drop onto the floor and head back to the dressing room. Once nearly there, I turn around, rush back to where I was and pick up the note, pocketing it away.

Just because Jon owes me a beer.

* * *

The large hotel room has turned into a club with a mix of David’s crew, our crew, the girls and a handful of Detroit’s musical finest. Everyone is courting David or Joe or me, but mostly David, and I don’t mind, but Joe clearly does. Brendon is sticking to the background with a slightly offended look on his face. Out of the guys available, I’d go for Brendon. He is clearly the most attractive choice.

If, well, I was David. And wanted to do a guy.

Audrey is winning by a long shot. She is sitting on David’s lap and telling stories of the crazy shit the two of them have done on previous tours. Brendon is nearly fuming. It would suck, watching your sister steal the guy you want, but they’re not siblings. Maybe distant cousins?

“In Santa Fe, Audrey talked me into going to a church and shagging in one of the corners.” David laughs loud enough for me to hear, and Audrey grins wickedly.

“Blasphemy, that,” Brendon comments casually. “Puts the whore of Babylon to shame.”

The others laugh, but Audrey doesn’t. She looks tired as she stands up, sends Brendon an offended look, grabs a champagne bottle and goes out to the balcony. Brendon looks pleased and quickly moves to sit next to David, who wraps an arm around Brendon and offers him a beer bottle. Brendon looks comfortable where he is.

I don’t mind one of our roadies being so openly after David, though now everyone present knows we’ve got a fag in the crew. Well, it doesn’t mean that the rest of us are. And I know what this courting accumulates to: a twenty-minute panting session and then they part ways. David is pretty irresistible, anyway. Hell, even _I_ might do him if someone gave me the right combination of recreational drugs. This isn’t like it was in Cleveland with that guy, that sleazy guy with those muscles and Brendon all cornered and tiny and looking like a coked up slut desperate for a fuck. David is a decent guy. Willing fan meets horny musician. Everyone knows how that’ll go. They have my blessing to fuck.

The party is getting louder, but Audrey isn’t back yet. I leave my own admiring crowd and go out to the balcony. Audrey is sitting on the bottom end of a wooden deck chair with a champagne bottle dangling between her slender legs, pink hair blowing slightly in the cool breeze. She is leaning forward, and she looks so much smaller than she usually does.

I close the door to the hotel room and go take the chair next to hers, letting my eyes wash over Canada on the other side of the river. Audrey glances at me, her eyeliner having smeared in the corners. I clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” she nods drunkenly and looks out. The city is a sea of a million little lights, but it feels like we’re in the middle of a glimmering desert and everyone else is far away. “Just, you know. One of those nights.”

She leans back in the chair and sighs. If I play this right, her admitting that something is off is a pathway to a whole bunch of more truths. Brendon won’t talk, and I don’t want to push him. Audrey, though... “Is it about Brendon?”

She turns her head to me, eyes widening in surprise. “No,” she says after a long pause. “And yes.” She giggles, and I take the champagne bottle she’s offering. “It’s not him exactly, just the things he reminds me of, and it just- It’s weird here. In this place. Makes me kinda uneasy. I know him, you know. I mean I knew him.” She licks her lips as if to taste the traces of champagne on them. I wait for her to go on, my insides squeezing together as she dangles the truth in front of me. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” I admit. Audrey and Brendon aren’t very good actors. “How do you know him?” I help myself to a cigarette.

“We grew up on the same street,” she explains, a cloudy look in her eyes like she can see it right in front of her eyes. My brother and sister theory suddenly doesn’t seem as ridiculous. “It was a shitty town, not even worth mentioning. An hour’s drive from Salt Lake City, which we hardly got to visit since it was _the cesspool of depravity_ ,” she says in a booming voice and smiles. “Dad always said that. And that was Salt Lake City. Los Angeles? New York? He paled just thinking about them! But not me, no. I always wanted to go myself, see what the fuss was about... Small town, everyone knew everyone. Really small place. I suppose it was cosy in its own way. Brendon was a few years younger than me, but we played together sometimes. All kids played together back there.”

I try to see Brendon as a small boy in this tiny place. I can’t really picture it, especially not him playing together with Audrey. “A small town in Utah,” I repeat, trying to take it in.

“Mormons.”

I do a double-take. “Mormons?”

“Yup,” she laughs and shakes her head disbelievingly. Audrey, a Mormon? _Brendon a Mormon?_ She’s a groupie. He’s gay. What kind of Mormons are they? Audrey smiles lopsidedly, pushing long, pink hair behind her ear. She sways to the left slightly as she offers her hand. “Alma, pleased to meet you.”

I shake her hand in disbelief.

“It’s one of the Books in the Book of Mormon. Book of Alma,” she explains. “That town alone had fifty Almas in it. I always hated the name; there was nothing unique in it. But I thought I was, you know? I thought I... I listened to the radio at night. I snuck downstairs after everyone had gone to bed and tuned into the only rock station we got around there. And I’d listen with my ear pressed to the speaker... The music. It just ran down my spine, and let me tell you, let me tell you, you listening? Good, here’s some truth: that music was the only religious experience that I’ve ever felt. And when I was seventeen, I left the place. The Doors were playing in Salt Lake City. I had to see them, had to. Had to see Jim Morrison, you know? And it was like... I was reborn. Right there, that night. I got backstage too. Jim told me I was beautiful. It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me, and he asked me what my name was and – it just came out. ‘Audrey,’ I said. Audrey.” She laughs at the memory, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that, although Jim probably meant what he said, he didn’t feel it. It was just words. I know how we musicians think, and what we say is beauty in others we only see as reflections of ourselves.

Audrey takes the bottle back from me and takes two gulps. “So I met Jim that night. Met these amazing people, and that was that. I had left my family a note, saying that I had gone, so my parents knew. And then I was Audrey Kitching. I made up the last name later, it kind of sounds like the sound a cash register makes? You know, ka-ching? And it rhymes with bitching. I kind of mixed those two. Audrey Kitching,” she repeats with a pleased smile. “You like the name? I like the name. I never went back after that.”

I look over my shoulder and into the hotel room, seeing the guys hanging out. I see Brendon, who is from the same small town where there are fifty Almas and rock ‘n roll is a sin. How did that boy become that man?

“Is Brendon his real name?” I ask quietly. Something aches inside me at the thought of him having lied about that.

“Oh, yeah. He hasn’t changed that.” I relax slightly. I don’t know why it matters so much. “God, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him on that bus. I thought he was dead, you know.”

The sip of champagne I was taking gets caught in my throat, and I end up coughing into my fist.“D-Dead?”

“Uh huh,” she nods and now takes a slug. She finishes the bottle. “I think they all think he’s dead! Brendon disappeared back in...” Her eyebrows knit together, her concentrated expression nearly comical. “Back in ’66? ’67? He must have been around fifteen, I think. Poof! Gone! Didn’t come to school one day. No one knew anything. The Elders told us not to bother his family with it, not to ask questions. I remember how heartbroken all the Uries were.”

“Who?” I frown.

“The Uries. Brendon Urie?” she laughs, and it occurs to me that I don’t know what his last name is. “I forgot about him, I guess,” Audrey muses. “Most of us just forgot, though Bill Hinckley said that he saw Brendon’s dad digging a grave in the back of their house. Someone told the teacher, and Bill got into so much trouble. Most people just forgot about him. And then he was on that bus, and I recognised him, and not only was he breathing, but he was all grown up too. I couldn’t believe it! The dead Urie kid. And we lived two houses apart. I broke free from the place, and here I am now! And here he is too, ended up right here too. It’s like that, what’s it called? Karma? No, like, uh...”

“Kismet.”

“Yeah, kismet!” she nods eagerly, eventually shrugging. “No idea what happened to him. I didn’t ask. Up until then, I didn’t know people could disappear like that... And he seems oddly fascinated with David too.”

“Well, he’s gay. All gays are fascinated by David.”

“Brendon is gay?” Audrey gasps, eyes widening, and broken free or not, I can tell what the tiny Mormon part of her brain thinks about that. “I-I mean, I have gay friends, but they are – They are not from where I’m from, I mean – Maybe it’s good he disappeared. They would have killed him there. Shit. Are you _sure_ he’s gay?” she asks desperately.

“Yeah,” I confirm. Brendon, disappearing at the age of fifteen, off the map until showing up in San Francisco less than two years ago. That’s over five years of where the hell was he and what did he do? Did he run away or was he thrown out? Or maybe he didn’t leave willingly at all, maybe he was taken?

Audrey laughs and covers her face with her hands. She laughs and laughs, and no wonder when I think of all the men she and Brendon have fucked, the drugs they’ve taken, the church gatherings they never attended, all in the name of rock ‘n roll, both of them.

“His family adored him,” Audrey says, smiling emptily and shrugging it off as a mystery of life. It leaves me with a haunting feeling I can’t shake off.

I finally go back inside and spot Brendon, who is now dancing on the table with Meryl, and they are both laughing their heads off. Of course his family adored him. That bright smile, those warm eyes? Who wouldn’t adore the kid?

But he vanished, and he won’t tell anyone what happened. It must have been bad. Worry swirls in me at the thought, and I hope it wasn’t anything too bad. He seems intact enough, but maybe it’s just another cover up.

I keep my eyes on Brendon and Meryl dancing, and David comes to me, following my gaze and saying, “Alright, you can have that one.”

“She’s all yours,” I say half-heartedly, happy that the girls will be leaving with David. That way our band will stop letting their dicks dictate all of our actions.

“I was talking about the guy,” David smirks and pats my shoulder. I freeze up. I wasn’t aware that I wanted him.


	7. Tales of San Francisco/I Hold It Above My Head

The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly but surely, sucking away the energy I try to preserve for the evenings. It’s like sleep-walking, dozing off in dressing rooms and the bus lounge, constantly having someone shaking me awake. And the first small break I get, when I can lie down on a hotel bed, Jac finally decides to call me. I listen to her stories of parties and mutual friends with a half-interested ear, eyes drooping and the hotel bed beneath me feeling so inviting. I was waiting for her to call me. She knows all the hotels we’re staying in and the name I go under: Angel Eyes. I liked that movie. And I’ve got fairly pretty eyes.

It took Jac weeks to call. I counted the days.

“Seems like he’s made an impression on you,” Jac says after I’ve done my part of vague, abbreviated sharing. My eyes flicker on the hotel room’s TV screen, a cartoon on mute as I wait for Pete to come get me for another radio interview that I will probably fall asleep during.

“Huh?”

“This Brendon.”

“He’s a nice guy,” I amend, and Jac admits that she forgot to go to my place to water the plants and now they are all dead. The conversation feels like my now former plants, dry and resentful because she didn’t call me and I didn’t call her, and when she finally called, her timing was wrong and just ticked me off.

She says Los Angeles seems to be waking up to The Followers frenzy, that she keeps getting outed as my girlfriend. That it will be insane when we finally play the West Coast. That I better not forget about her.

She has to go before I do, the line clicking dead but the phone still pressed to my ear, and that’s two weeks of waiting for her to make the first move for a lot of nothing.

Spencer’s right. Maybe I need a new girlfriend, someone who dotes on me more than she does. But that’d never work either, because fuck anyone who thinks I can’t take care of myself.

Pete knocks on the door, and, half-asleep, half-awake, I force myself out of bed.

Spencer and I are doing an interview plus one song for a campus radio station, and the amateurism shows in the arrangements as the guy that walks us through campus just fusses and claims that he is our number one fan. Luckily, he has to go to his Psychology 101 class after we arrive to the radio headquarters. Spencer scribbles postcards as we wait in the lounge, the crackling speakers in the corners carrying the host’s voice on how their team lost in the final round of the North American Debating Championship and that Swan University’s team won yet again. Echoes from a life I never had any interest in living.

Spencer bought two postcards from the hotel lobby, and he offers me one, so I take it and contemplate on whom to address it to. Dad, definitely not. Probably doesn’t even know I’m on tour. Jac, maybe, but I don’t want to give her the pleasure. I could send it to myself, but that’d be sad. I could address it to ‘Brendon Urie’s parents’ and write _Your son is alive and well_ , but it’s not like I know where they live.

It’s weird now that I know so much about the roadie, and he doesn’t know that I know. I won’t tell him I know either, since he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. I look across the room at Andy and Brendon, who came with us. Andy is getting one of my guitars out of a gig bag, and Brendon is playing around with Spencer’s tambourine.

“Here you go,” Pete says, offering me a mug of black coffee. I push hair out of my eyes and take a long sip, the porcelain hot beneath my fingers. “No sugar?” I ask unhappily, Pete blinking at me. God, he can’t even do his job.

“We need stamps,” Spencer says and keeps scribbling, and Pete makes Andy go get us some. My eyes focus on what Spencer is writing on the back of a card, curiosity getting the best of me as I snatch it from his fingers. “Hey!” he protests.

“ _I hope you know that I think about you every day, from sunrise to sunset_ ,” I read sceptically, eyeing the address line and mouthing ‘Suzie Smith’, who apparently lives in Cincinnati. Spencer takes the card back, glaring. “Who’s Suzie?”

“My cousin.”

“Well, that’s fucking creepy.”

“Fuck off, Ryan.”

Spencer punches my shoulder, and I grin and punch him back. “Hey, if incest is what it takes for you to get over Haley...”

Spencer groans loudly. “Pete, get this moron away from me, please?”

“Who’s Haley?” Brendon asks. We all freeze. My eyes fly from him to Pete to Spencer. Spencer’s smile is gone, and Pete is trying hard not to look at the drummer, instead examining his nails. Brendon’s realised he has said something wrong. I remember when Pete told Spencer the news, and if I stopped Spencer from punching Pete a second time, it wasn’t for Pete’s sake. Brendon mutters a confused, “Sorry, uh...”

“Not at all. It seems she is out, anyway, and this Suzie, Spencer’s hot cousin, is in,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. I get up and walk to the couch Brendon is on, sitting down and taking a pen to my still empty postcard. I clear my throat and start writing. “My dearest beloved. Being on the road is lonely without thee here. My heart aches to be with thine, my soul only complete when blessed by thy presence. Thy silky, brown hair –”

“Jac’s blonde, you idiot,” Spencer laughs, and I grin at him, glad that he is letting it be.

Brendon, apparently not having learned that sometimes silence is golden, asks, “Who’s Jac?”

“Ryan’s better half. If he has a better half,” Spencer says, giving me a cruel smile, and I stick my tongue out. If the immature schoolboy part of me manages to make Spencer smile, then I’ll let it roam free.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Brendon says, sounding genuinely put off. “You’ve never mentioned her.”

“Not much to mention,” I shrug, finishing the card with an ‘RR xxxxxxxx’. I look at the ridiculous love letter on the back of the card and throw it on the coffee table. “Besides, she’s not a girlfriend in the traditional sense. She’s a girl and she’s a friend, you know? I’m telling you, in the future, there will be no such words as ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend’. They sound so goddamn archaic to me.”

Brendon looks at me in amusement, and yeah, he would be surprised to hear Jac exists. I’m pretty sure Brendon knows I haven’t exactly been living like a monk on this tour so far. Sex and affection are two completely different things, though. Jac knows that. Sex is just sex; you can have it with just about anyone. Affection, well. I’m fond of Jac. It doesn’t mean I’m telling her the shit I’ve done, and in return, she’s not telling me the shit she’s done.

“You’re a pioneer,” Spencer mumbles and finishes writing the card. “No one talked about this free love idea in the sixties.”

“Smart.”

“That I am,” he admits and grins at me.

The radio host walks out, just another kid, and we make the introductions and head over to the broadcast studio’s side with the guitar and tambourine while Pete and the roadies stay behind. I’ve finished my cup of coffee, but I desperately need another one. “If you fall asleep, I’ll poke you awake,” Spencer promises, and I nod tiredly and rub my eyes, perched on one of the stools with microphones set around us. I spot Brendon behind the glass window and I motion at my mug, and he nods and gives a thumbs up.

“Okay, okay, okay! This is Nelson and you’re listening to the best, and well, only, Toronto University radio station, Radio Varsity!” He presses a button, and we hear a theme tune. “And we’ve got some special guests here with me. Remember how I told you there’d be something big happening today? We only kept it secret so that you crazy kids wouldn’t bombard these rockers as they made their way to the studio just a minute ago! So in the studio with me are Brian Ross and Spencer Smith of The –”

I bury my face in my hands and let Spencer correct the clueless fucker as the interview kicks off. Spencer answers the questions, and I nod and hum.

“What do you think of Toronto?”

Brendon carefully slides into the studio, handing me another mug of coffee. He mouths ‘two sugars’, and I smile, mouthing ‘Thanks’. He makes a show of bowing and tipping a hat he doesn’t have as he exits the room.

“Your tour is called _Jackie, Me and This Lady_ , and I read in your recent Creem interview that these are real people. So, who’s Jackie?”

By now, Jackie has become an on running gag. All interviewers ask it, and we’ve picked up the joke, going around the bus and venues while yelling “Hey, you seen Jackie around?” at each other.

Spencer shrugs and gives the kid an easy smile. “Jackie can be whoever you want her to be.”

“That’s really interesting. Now Ryan, how do you see the future of The Followers?”

I tear my eyes off of Brendon and look at this college kid instead. “Um, I don’t, really. Just taking it a day at a time. We’ll be touring well into September, then we’re probably taking some time off before recording again.”

“No long term plans?”

“Nope.”

You can’t make long term plans for a rock band. Will we still be recording and touring in thirty years’ time? God, I hope not. Three years into the future, okay, I can swing that. But who would want to live this life forever? Well, apart from Jagger, but he’s a crazy son of a bitch, anyway, and he was on heroin when he told me he’d still be jumping on stage when he’s sixty.

It’s harder getting out of the building than it was coming in. We end up delayed by an hour as Spencer and I patiently sign records and magazine covers for all the students who have turned up outside during our interview. There’s a guy who tells me he’s been to a number of shows already, and then he says, “Hey, Brendon and Andy!” really loudly, and the two roadies lift eyebrows and awkwardly wave back, and the guy looks pleased.

When we finally get back to the van driving us to the venue, Brendon grins. “I’m famous by association. This is awesome.”

“Uh huh,” I mutter and settle to sleep with my head against the window, the exhaustion finally taking over, and I have weird dreams of Jac, but she’s headless and floating; weightless, not anything I could touch, but I don’t have hands anyway, I don’t even have arms –

“Ryan, wake up!”

I open my eyes and realise we’re at the venue. The van is parked in the back. Brendon is quirking an eyebrow at me. We’re alone. “Soundcheck.”

“Riiiight,” I mumble tiredly and frown. “What city are we in?”

“Toronto. Still. Come on, I’ll lead the way,” Brendon offers, and I follow him out of the van and into the venue, rolling my shoulders and trying to shake the exhaustion off. Brendon glances at me quickly. “So hey, I just, uh, did I say something wrong back there? About this Haley or whoever?”

We snake in the crowd of venue workers, lights people, sound techs, cleaners, promoters. They blur together in my tired eyes, and I have to rake my brain to catch myself up with Brendon. “Spencer’s ex-girlfriend. They split up a long time ago, but he’s still on the broken heart wagon.”

“That it? Pete just looked kinda...” he trails off.

We stop to give way to the support band’s dancers. The band’s local, and they think it’s great to have the stage full of crap like half a dozen chicks dancing to their music. Sure, the girls are hot, but why try to draw attention away from the music? The girls all bat their eyelashes at me, someone giggles, and someone says, “Come on, Keltie, let’s go warm up!”

The girls are gone in a flash of blonde and brown, leg warmers on their perfectly shaped legs. I stare after them absentmindedly and address Brendon. “Tell you what. I’ll spill all about Haley if you give me a story of your own in return.”

Brendon frowns as we reach the stage, the rest of my band and crew already setting things up. “I don’t have any stories.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” I say firmly. Brendon looks surprised but nods anyway before he begins pushing one of the amp cases on stage.

* * *

I say, “So you go first.”

It’s quarter past four in the morning and I’m digging into my early-breakfast cheeseburger, fries, and strawberry milkshake. I haven’t gone to bed yet. I’m awake whenever I could be asleep, and I’m sleepy whenever I need to be awake. The fluorescent lamp hanging above our booth is nearly hurting my stinging eyes, its light shooting back up at me from the table’s black surface. I know that I look like a goddamn mess, and I sigh, taking another bite of the tasteless burger. I’m too tired to care. Brendon looks slightly nauseated as he sits across from me in the roadside diner. “What?” I ask, still chewing.

“Your mother ever taught you any table manners?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I can see that.”

I suck the straw, and Brendon watches. Yummy strawberry milkshake is yummy.

Brendon laughs. “Any idea how many calories you’re consuming before it’s even dawn?”

“Calories? What are those? Look, man, I’ll tell you a tour secret: whenever you’ve got the opportunity to sleep, you sleep. Every chance you get to eat, you eat. Fries?”

He shakes his head. His loss.

We’re the only ones awake. Brendon’s driving the rest of the way and we pulled over to refill the tank. The support band imitated us, and their bus is parked next to ours outside. It’s a weird type of night this far north, where it doesn’t get dark properly. The world outside is light blue, like the sun is wrapped up in a shroud and is hiding just behind the corner somewhere.

On the other side of the diner are the support’s dancers and a few guys from the band, too excited about being on the road to sleep. It’s easy for them, doing a handful of shows with us. It’s not long enough for them to learn or to relate, not that I wish more people could relate to me.

Twelve down, forty-three to go.

I focus on Brendon again, who is sipping his coffee slowly, waiting for it to cool down. “You should tell me something about you before I tell you about the Haley business.”

“See, I’ve thought about it, and I honestly have nothing interesting to share.”

“Nothing’s ever happened to you?” I ask sceptically, and he nods. Well, that’s a fucking lie. How about his disappearance? Or even his childhood in Mormon paradise? But he doesn’t know that I know about any of that, and it’s more than clear that he doesn’t want anyone asking about his past either. I tried already. “Well, what kind of things do you know about?”

Brendon laughs. “I know the good bars in The Castro.”

“Okay, tell me about those, then. But you better be honest.”

He hesitates. “Don’t know, man. It might, uh... upset a straight man of such upstanding morals such as yourself.”

I wave him off with my left hand. “Please, I have no morals. I once had a thing with a girl who wanted me to choke her until she passed out. And, for the record, I did.”

Brendon’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. “Well, okay then.”

And he begins telling me tales of San Francisco, a potential promised land for guys like him. I can’t picture it in my head, though I try. More and more homosexuals move there all the time; every week there are new faces in the area. Some are young kids who have run away, some are older, in their thirties or forties who only now have had the courage to admit who they are. Brendon says that his last apartment was on Castro Street, right at the spot where it all comes together. (“Where do you live now, then?” I ask, and he shrugs, a faint blush on his cheeks as he looks out of the window. “I’m kind of in between places right now. What with this tour and all, I’m living on that bus this summer.”) You can walk down the main street and see men kissing. Sometimes women, they do get some lesbians too. But sometimes you leave your apartment only to hear that someone got beaten up last night, not two blocks from where you live. And you get the occasional Christian trying to give out flyers on the street, screaming that you’re an abomination and sick and twisted. Brendon’s politically active, but not everyone cares. Most guys there don’t bother looking at the bigger picture at all.

He describes the street where the young hookers are. New in town, no money, they’ll sleep with anyone and do anything. And despite what they’re doing, they are good kids, but too many disappear with a client and never come back. Married middle-aged men pick them up and fuck them in dirty motels and feel guilty that God hates them for wanting young boy meat. The boy gets twenty bucks and a load up his ass, bruises on his waist. But those boys, those hookers, are for the closet cases that aren’t a part of the community. If you want sex, you can get it. Anywhere. Anytime.

“We call them glory holes,” he explains, and I stare in disbelief as he describes a bar that is no bar at all, just a place to go and have sex. And they don’t even keep it to the back rooms, no. There’s one bar, loud music, dim, dim lights and plenty of dark corners and couches. And there are these mazes that you go into with holes in the walls, and you can just put your dick through one of them, and some guy on the other side sucks you off. You’ve no idea who it is. Brendon knows a guy who accidentally blew his brother.

“That is disgusting, you know that, right?” I deadpan, genuinely disgusted as he laughs hysterically.

“Yeah, I know, man, but it was all anyone talked about for weeks! Seriously, it was the funniest thing!” He wipes the corners of his eyes. “Ah, where was I? Yeah, the sex. Right, okay. I mean, I’ve never been down the heterosexual path, but I’ve seen plenty of that side. And straight people have these ridiculous courting rituals. If you’re gay, it’s easy. You see a guy you like, you look them in the eye and nod towards a corner; if they’re game, they come with you. You don’t even need to speak, man.”

“Fuck.” Why aren’t girls that easy? “Is there, like... a certain thing you do with your eyes or...? I mean, how do you do it? Give me the look.”

“Uh, okay.” He glances down and clears his throat. He lifts his gaze, and oh. Oh. His eyes are staring right into my goddamn soul, or maybe deeper than that, soft and inviting, his plump bottom lip playfully between his white teeth, lips curved in a suave smile, and that’s seduction. Right there.

No wonder they go with him.

“Huh,” I manage.

Brendon breaks into laughter, seduction evaporating in an instant, and he’s back to his usual self. He snatches one of my fries. “I don’t go to those places. Been once or twice, but that was enough, you know? I mean, the focus tends to be on the sex because that’s the thing that separates us from you. But that doesn’t mean it’s all to do with sex. There’s love and friendship and partners too.”

“Except for you, of course. You’re too cute to settle down.”

“You remember,” he grins. The dancers giggle loudly, and we look their way. They giggle even louder when they notice. Brendon sighs. “I think that brunette has got a crush on me. Poor girl, no gaydar.”

“Sure,” I chuckle. It’s obvious that it’s me she wants. Just then the girl stands up and makes her way over to us. Brendon and I exchange glances.

She beams. “Hi. I’m Tracy. I’m one of the dancers?”

“Yeah, I know,” Brendon smiles back. “I saw you on stage back in Toronto. You’re very flexible.”

“It’s a gift!” she laughs, squeezes to sit next to Brendon without an invitation, and adds, “Though, honestly, it’s hard work, you’ve no idea.” She’s drunk. I’m sobering up from the night before. What a perfect balance.

“I’m sure it is,” I grant her and finish my milkshake. I’m pathetically homeostatic – now that I’m full, my body is telling me to sleep.

“You guys taking off soon? I know we are. But I was just thinking if maybe you two would want to give me a tour around your bus? It’s so shiny and new! I bet it, uh, would be just magical. If I would come along... with _both_ of you. The three of us. Going back to your bus.”

Brendon pales visibly, but Joe and I get threesome offers all the time. I would never, nuh-uh, not with Joe. God, that is a million times wrong. And there was that one girl who wanted me and Spencer, which is even more wrong. With two girls, sure, and I have been down that road before. I have also had sex when my band members have been in the room, but we certainly weren’t having sex together. Tracy is smiling drunkenly. For a guy who has visited glory holes, Brendon shouldn’t be so shocked.

“Thanks, Tracy, but that’s never gonna happen,” I laugh. “And it’s not me or Brendon, by the way. It’s you.”

She frowns. “Well, you’re a jerk.”

“And you’re a slut, so what gives?”

Tracy shoots up, clearly angered. “You should hear the shit they say about you, Ryan Ross! You’re in no position to judge _me_! I was homecoming queen!”

One of the other dancers has hurried over and is gently trying to take a hold of Tracy, beckoning, “Trace, come on! Please? Sorry, you guys, she’s had a bit too much –”

Tracy huffs and swirls around, snapping, “Don’t touch me! Keltie, don’t touch me!”

The blonde girl sends another apologetic look our way, her eyes lingering on me for a while as she and the rest of the dancers leave the diner, and Brendon hums loudly under his breath. “Awkward.”

“Bitch,” I remark, gathering the last bits of ketchup from the plate with my thumb and lick it off. Brendon is staring. “I can eat my ketchup if I want to! Fuck!” I stand up and head for the door, and Brendon follows me.

The things they say about me. Who’s “they” and what do they know, anyway? No one’s perfect. No one’s goddamn perfect, and, who cares, they can say what the fuck they want. See if I care. What have they accomplished? Have they given their life to music like I have? Sacrificed as much as I have? That stupid, drunken bitch.

“Ryan, you okay?” Brendon asks as we reach the bus, his face disbelieving. I ignore him. He rolls his eyes. “Look, don’t give me an attitude if –”

“Technically, you’re working for me, so I can give you an attitude if I want to. Got it?”

Brendon doesn’t back off. Everyone I know, except for Spencer and Jac, would back off.

“Dude, who cares what she said? Are you really that sensitive to criticism? I bet you can’t even read the album reviews –”

“Oh, I can, that’s no problem. They always praise us, anyway.”

Brendon makes a ‘tut’ with his tongue, and it speaks more than words would, meaning I’m spoiled, self-centred, arrogant, acting like a bit of an asshole right now, and who cares what Brendon thinks either? He’s just some homeless fag.

He opens the door to the bus, and I hurry inside, shrugging off my jacket and throwing it on the couch of the messy lounge, beer bottles and setlist sketches lying on the floor. Brendon follows me, lowering his voice so that he doesn’t disturb the rest of the guys sleeping in their bunks. “You still owe me your story, but we’ll save it for another time when your ego’s in check.”

I pull my shirt off and throw it on the floor, shaking my head at him. “You’re this close to losing your job, Brendon. This fucking close.”

I go to my back lounge nest without another word to him, kicking off my jeans and sliding under the covers. The bus takes off a minute later, and I wait for sleep to finally take over as I watch the light coming from the windows, creating changing, eerie shadows on the walls.

But sleep doesn’t come.

* * *

The audience roars like a starving dragon, and the stage lights hit my skin, being the flame that scorches me. My fingers ache as we launch into our last song, my shirt glued to my back. Brent walks over to me, moving with the music, his bass pressed to his lower stomach and crotch. I flip my head and try to get wet bangs off my forehead.

Joe yells, “Yeah!” into his microphone. We don’t have any fucking “yeah”s in this song.

The lights keep changing, bright yellow and red and blue, and I move to sing into the microphone and the audience sings back at me. Everyone knows the lyrics now. I stop playing the guitar after the second verse, and we kick into a new part. I catch the tambourine Zack throws me from the side of the stage. I hold it above my head first and then start beating it in front of my chest, smacking it to my open palm so that the microphone will catch the sound.

Eventually, the drum beats stop, leaving only the bass, tambourine and guitar. Then the bass stops, and eventually Joe plucks the last string, and it’s just me and my voice and the tambourine, and the audience sings the final line with me as the guys stand around me, taking in the moment, and the edge of the tambourine hits my palm one last time. I close my eyes. A drop of sweat drips off my nose. One, two –

They start screaming and applauding. I step away from the mic, out of the spotlight, a wounded animal taking a step away from its predator. Joe is speaking to the crowd. “Thank you so much, Ottawa, you’re beautiful!”

We leave the stage, high five the crew, who are waiting around to start packing everything up. My gaze meets Brendon’s. “Meet me by the bus in twenty,” I say, and it sounds like an order without me having to try. He looks surprised but nods, and Pete shrugs as an okay that Brendon will be sliding from his duties prematurely. The audience is now trying to leave, thousands of feet moving restlessly.

After I’ve had a quick shower and have put clean clothes on, I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder and go outside to smoke. The rest of the band hasn’t even gotten out of their stage clothes as they buzz with adrenalin from the show. They enjoy playing live, the rest of them.

Brendon shows up as I’m halfway through my first cigarette. The tour buses are in a fenced area in the back, and I don’t have to worry about getting targeted here. I lean against the silvery metal side of our bus, my bag at my feet and hair wet from the shower. Brendon looks at me cautiously, a hint of resentment in his eyes. I cough and wipe my nose. “Hey.”

“You wanted to see me?”

I nod to confirm it.

“You’re gonna fire me, maybe?” He sounds mocking. I force myself not to think about the shitty things he said to me, because if I think about them, I’ll just get pissed again. I’ve spent the entire day trying to forget about it.

“It was a few years ago, before we were famous like this,” I kick off, and he instantly silences, interested eyes fixing on me. “We’d just released the second album, and I think Haley came to a show with a friend of hers, who was a big fan. And it was more relaxed back then, I mean, I never liked talking to fans, but it happened more back then, kids just sticking around while we packed up our gear. And Haley and Spencer got talking, sparks flying. She drove to the next town to see us again. I mean, I figured she was just another groupie, but then Spencer fell for her.”

“Was she a groupie?”

“No,” I laugh. “Not that girl, not ever. She’s far too respectable for that. Or so I thought.” I finish my cigarette quietly, scraping the asphalt with the soles of my shoes. There’s something about Brendon that makes me nervous. “She never liked me. Thought I was kind of a bad influence on Spencer. She’s known Spencer for, what, a few months and she concludes that? I’ve known Spencer since he was a kid. But I still know that she got to see sides of Spencer I never will, that’s to be expected. I mean, Spencer changed during that time he was with her. We kept getting more and more famous, and this is where Pete comes in. The thing you gotta understand is that this band is a product. That’s the first thing Pete said when we signed to Capitol and he became our manager. And we gotta make sure that kids want to buy us, and a lot of those kids are female with these fantasies of us, so girlfriends? A bad idea, will damage the band. So we don’t want that. And that’s why Haley had to go.”

Brendon frowns. “Spencer dumped his girlfriend because Pete told him to?”

“No. Spencer refused to do it. He was in love, remember? Love of his life, wanted to marry her and grow old with her, all those things. So Pete made her an offer that she _could_ have refused, but she didn’t. She took the money, and when Spencer went home after a day of recording, she was gone. Even took their dogs with her.”

“So it wasn’t love.”

“And she wasn’t that respectable either,” I conclude, lighting a second cigarette. I smoke like a chimney, but so what? It’s not like smoking damages my health. Brendon looks upset, but what I told him is the truth. Yes, it was an asshole move from Pete, but she could have told him to fuck off, couldn’t she? And Spencer threatened to quit after that, but he made the right decision and stayed. I need him in this band.

He’s not the same anymore, though. I feel like Spencer shut me out after that, and I didn’t take sides, not really. I was happy that Haley was out of the picture. Nothing against her, but she never fit into this world of ours. She was too uncompromising. But I didn’t exactly tell Pete to go to hell either, just shrugged and concluded that it was just how things were now. And some six months down the line, Spencer still keeps his secrets to himself, and he won’t come to me if something’s wrong. Probably doesn’t trust me.

“That’s horrible,” Brendon whispers eventually. “That you... share so much with another person, give your heart to them, and they – they accept a bribe to leave. That you didn’t even matter?”

“And still Spencer won’t say a bad thing about her. Love is not only blind, it’s stupid as well. And we’ve all made sacrifices to be in this band, you know? His was just a bit more personal.”

“But what about Jac? Why can you have a girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “Totally different thing. Haley and Spencer were like the super couple, attached from the hip, finishing each other’s sentences, googly eyes, future plans. Jac is a girl and a friend. The end.”

“So you said,” Brendon recalls, extending his arm with a questioning eyebrow, and I pass him my cigarette. He takes a deep drag.

“I’d never let her get in the way of the music. She doesn’t pose a threat to the band. And I know Spencer’s still angry, but he’s young! He’s a famous drummer. He should enjoy his freedom, you know?” Except that Spencer’s not living it up in any way, and Brendon probably knows that too if he has paid any attention. “Anyway, that’s the story. You’re better off not mentioning Haley. I’ve kind of been trying to help him move on, to get him laid, but it’s been to no avail.”

Brendon nods and tips the end of the cigarette. “Getting laid on this tour is damn difficult. Everyone’s too straight.”

I smirk. “What about the party in Cleveland?”

Brendon shrugs it off, doesn’t ask how I know about that. “That was days and days ago. Who remembers Cleveland anymore? I should’ve known better. Prog rock, but no one’s that progressive.”

“Aw, the poor gay kid, stuck with chick loving rockers,” I laugh, and he glares at me before rolling his eyes. “You might have some luck with Tracy the dancer.”

He winces. “Let’s not go down that road. Ever. I mean, I know that our generation is the reckless one that’s doing all the insane shit our parents never even dreamed of doing, and I want to have all kinds of life experiences, too. I could kiss a girl. I’ve kissed girls; that doesn’t gross me out. But Tracy? No, that’s where I draw the line.”

“If you’re desperate,” I suggest, but he shakes his head like he will never be that desperate. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground and steps on it, and I watch him, feeling suddenly playful. “Come here,” I say, and he lifts an eyebrow as I step closer.

“What?”

“I was a dick to you last night. Believe it or not, I do know when I’m being a dick.”

“Count me amazed.”

I take another step and am in his space. Brendon is looking at me with a puzzled expression. I begin to lean in as I whisper a teasing and smug, “Let me apologise.”

Brendon freezes slightly, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”

“Pitying you,” I shrug with a smirk, amused by the thought of all the action he thought he’d be getting on this tour, leaning in the rest of the way until my lips find his. It doesn’t gross me out either, a kiss one way or another has never meant anything. Just skin on skin. That’s what I expect, and I have already visualised his snappy comeback and me laughing at him some more after this. But then the joke is gone. Our lips touch, and it’s not funny anymore.

The touch is barely there, but I feel his warmth, the smell of cigarettes in his breath. And maybe, maybe if his lips weren’t slightly parted like they are, I wouldn’t notice the slight moistness of his lower lip. But I notice it, and I recoil in surprise, but only an inch, if even that. It shoots straight through me. My eyes are focused on his cheek as our breaths mix together.

Brendon swallows. My stomach twists.

And that. That was. That –

I move towards him as he moves towards me, his head tilting slightly, our lips hovering, trying to find something, searching, then it fits – it must fit, because our lips press together again. I feel the kiss in all of my body. His hand curls around my hip, and I fist his hair and pull his head closer, our lips suddenly bruising together. Jolts of excitement fly up and down my spine, all from the hungry movements of our mouths, and his lips, god, they are so soft. His stubble scratches my chin, and his hand comes up to caress my neck, all calloused fingertips.

His tongue swipes over my lower lip before going in deeper, and I don’t object. Maybe I should. I don’t. This isn’t pity anymore. No, pity, definitely not.

His hair is short as it swipes beneath my fingers, our bodies pressing together. A shuddery breath from my throat gets lost as our tongues move together, so dirty and willing. Brendon moans, a short, aroused sound, and my crotch is pressed to his, our stomachs together, our chests. His body mirrors mine in a way that terrifies and fascinates me. I keep kissing him, pulse picking up, my thumb brushing his jaw line as he opens up for me.

What am I doing? What the fucking fuck do I think I’m doing?

His hand moves to the small of my back, to the top of my jeans where his nails dig into my skin. A sudden wave of heat washes over me from the touch.

Then I hear high heels against the ground, a distinctive click-click-click sound from somewhere close by. I pull back from the kiss, or kisses, kissing, the battle of our mouths, a strand of saliva stretching from my lower lip to his before breaking off.

I step back, horrified. Brendon looks as shocked as me.

Click-click-click –

“Brendon?”

Brendon flinches, wipes his mouth, and I focus on the girl who has just rounded the bus. The blonde dancer who took Tracy away last night. She looks hesitant. I hurry to get out a cigarette to give my hands something to do, but I know I just fumble aimlessly.

“Yeah?” Brendon asks. His voice is rough.

“Pete sent me to get you? Brent won’t let the other roadies pack up his bass, so they need you.” She smiles expectantly. My heart races, trapped in my ribcage with no hope of escape. What the hell did I just...?

“Oh. Yeah. Course.” Brendon looks at me. I avoid it by lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag.

I watch his shoes walking away and vanishing around the front of the bus.

A distancing click-click-click and her friendly voice chattering, and Brendon makes no sound at all as he walks, no, he wouldn’t. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you, and then he’s on you, you’re on him, before you even had the tiniest fucking clue that it was going to happen.


	8. An Absurd Notion

So maybe I am attracted to him. His full lips and beautiful eyes, his slender body, the round ass... But acknowledging that doesn’t mean that I’m not a straight man. I admire beauty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Though, if I asked Spencer, he would say that it’s one thing to admire beauty from afar and another to want to touch it and feel it in your hands.

I’m not going to consult Spencer on this. No, that is a definite, definite no. I’m never going to tell anyone about anything. Not their business what I do.

I keep watching the light of the street lamps sweep across the lounge table as our bus treads more and more miles in the quiet summer night. An orangey glow goes across the table, and then the shadow is back, then the light, the shadow. I watch the way the lights play on the opened notebook, the pen, my knuckles and the empty vodka flask.

The page remains empty. I haven’t written anything since Ottawa.

And, besides, the more I think about it, the more I realise that I’m not attracted to him. It’s an absurd notion that I would be, and the fact that he kissed me doesn’t prove anything. I’m famous. I’m not exactly ugly. He’s gay, and he’s lonely. I’m one of the few people around here who bother socialising with him. So he misread the situation, and I went along with it. Could happen to anyone, I’m sure.

I’m so not attracted to him.

The door separating the bunk area from the lounge opens. My eyes, which have adjusted to the dark, instantly spot a sleepy looking Brendon, who doesn’t look my way as he simply enters the toilet, pyjama bottoms hanging low on his skinny hips. The lock clicks to its place. The bus hums silently around me.

My pulse has picked up.

I muffle a frustrated groan and bring the flask to my lips. One drop drips into my mouth. I stare at the flask disappointedly. “Et tu, Brute?”

The toilet is flushed, the swoosh sound coming through the paper thin walls. I slide the flask back into my pocket, trying to hide evidence.

Maybe I’m a bit drunk, but I certainly am not attracted to the roadie. I should sneak to my nest before he comes out, or maybe I should go to the front to chat with William, but I’ve been trying to figure out if William knows. Brendon might have told him, them being friends and all. William’s not said anything. William’s not the kind of guy who could hide a thing like that; he’d tell half the world and send letters to the rest.

The lounge is dark, the lights switched off. I’m in the shadows, so I stay where I am, knowing I’m pretty invisible in my corner. Good plan.

The bathroom door reopens. The light inside casts a narrow beam across the lounge. Straight on me.

Well, shit.

Brendon stops. “Oh. Hi. Didn’t see you there.” He closes the door. I hum.

Apart from the “Morning,” “Where’s the dressing room?”, “Where am I?”, “Can you pass me the capo/guitar cable/weed/setlist?” comments, we’ve not talked, and we’ve not been in private without others around. I don’t know much about the guy, but I know he’s not stupid, so my avoiding-all-eye-contact technique was pretty easy to read. It still should be.

He asks, “What are you doing?”

I shrug, lifting my shoulders more than necessary. “Sitting in the dark bus lounge in the middle of the night.”

Silence. I didn’t look, it’s not like I _looked_ , but I still saw the flat plane of his stomach, the V of his hips, his bare chest. “Want some company?” he asks.

I tense up. Is that gay code for something?

I take my pen and tap it onto the still empty page, letting my eyes focus on it. “I’m good, thanks.”

He scoffs. “Whatever.”

I look up in time to watch him turn away, surprised by the scorn because I haven’t done anything, have I? The flash of the streetlights hits his turned away form, and I can see two identical indents on his lower back, just above where his pyjama bottoms end. Back dimples, surrounded by smooth skin, crowned by the cut of his spine, moving up to pale, strong shoulders and back down again, shoulder blades, spine, dimples. Skin. Muscle. Bone. Within my reach.

The bunk area door closes. My breathing is shallow.

So maybe I am attracted to him.

* * *

I have no idea why I bitched about our five New York shows. In fact, I should really congratulate Pete for being such an amazing manager and tell the guys not to throw litter around the bus to piss Pete off. The way he acts around the vehicle is comical to say the least, petting the walls, talking to it, asking if we all want to get together and give it a good, loving wash before soundcheck. Which, for the record, we do not want. Getting out of the claustrophobic bus and staying in a hotel for practically a week? No chance of bumping into a half-dressed Brendon? Pete’s a goddamn genius.

We’re all staying on the same floor in the hotel, the crew guys sharing rooms, but the four of us move into a suite with four bedrooms. It’s a bit too close to Joe Trohman than I’d like to be, but I can always just stay in my room. I have interviews all day, and Pete is so awesome for arranging those too. No crew needed in interviews.

As I open the door to our suite, I note from the corner of my eye that William and Brendon are staying in the room next door. Brendon will be just on the other side of the wall, but at least it’s further away than two steps from my bed, behind the door, upper bunk immediately on the left.

The day flies by as the four of us are stuck in interviews where they all ask the same goddamn questions. But I suck it up and enjoy the Brendonless environment where I don’t need to try and process having sexual desires towards a fucking guy. Joe and Spencer do most of the talking. Brent is clearly suffering as he snaps a few replies, and I can relate to his frustration. It’s too much work to make an effort in every interview.

We don’t have a show tonight. Instead, our five sold out New York gigs start tomorrow, but it shouldn’t be too bad. We don’t need to drive to a new place every night, we don’t need to pack up and unpack again. This almost feels like a vacation. Spencer counts the days until we’re done with the East Coast and have a month’s break before the tour’s second leg: seventeen days. If I can avoid Brendon for seventeen days, I can be free of him for a month, go home, clear my head, get this thing out of my system where my thoughts inevitably gravitate towards his lips.

When we finally return to our suite, we try and work on tomorrow’s setlist, but instead, we just start drinking. We’re heading out to a club. We’ve been invited. It’s refreshing that we no longer have to try and get invites. Rewind five years back before we got signed, Joe and I going around and promoting us, trying to get gigs in shitty LA clubs. Now: New York City, four star hotel, top floor suite, complimentary beer.

But Spencer, who is the biggest supporter of unity among us, says we should go get the roadies too, have fun together. And so fifteen minutes later, William, Andy, Brendon and Zack come back with Spencer, and Andy asks if anyone wants to do some LSD with him. Joe and William do. Brendon keeps talking to Spencer, not even acknowledging me. The suite’s living room isn’t that big, so Brendon could at least acknowledge me.

A sharp knock sounds on the door, and Brent groans. “That’s gonna be the hotel telling us to shut up.”

“Or maybe fans. You know those few kids that have been following us since Montreal?” Joe points out.

Brent nods as he heads over. “I’ll get it.”

I keep talking to Zack, but then I hear her voice. The hair at the back of my neck sticks up at the sound. Zack is already looking towards the door, and I follow his gaze. There she is with her arms around Brent, and Brent is happily hugging her back. And she is all fair skin with short, short hot pants, her stomach bare, a tiny t-shirt that covers her chest, enough make up on for ten girls, four inch platform shoes, and she lets go of Brent and looks at the rest of us, beaming.

I stare at her like she has stepped out of some alternative reality and suddenly made her way into this hotel room scene full of swear words, sweat, dirty clothes, exhausted musicians and stressed out roadies. She beams at me. “Missed me?”

I manage to say, “Jac.”

She laughs. “Did you forget I was coming?”

Yes.

“Of course not!” I say as I go greet her, kissing her on the lips and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. With the shoes she’s wearing, she is practically my height. She waves at the others, and there she goes. A natural star and centre of attention.

“He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he?” she asks, and the guys nod and assure I’ve been nothing but innocent and loyal and talking about her constantly. My eyes meet Brendon’s, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt quite as uncomfortable.

Jac grabs a beer bottle and blends in. She can blend into any crowd.

I forgot she was coming, but she brings with her dry land, something for me to hold onto, and I let my hand rest on her shoulders, her long, silky hair sweeping my fingertips, and I drink up, finding it easier to smile as she jokes with Andy and Joe. Long and silky. Blonde. Not short and brown.

“Bren, you’ve never met Jac, have you?” Andy says, and then Brendon is there. He offers his hand cordially.

“Brendon?” Jac clarifies and shakes hands with the roadie. “Ryan’s told me so much about you!”

Jac’s called me once during this tour. I merely mentioned the guy, so what the hell? Okay, maybe I did talk about Brendon for ten minutes, but I was just trying to fill up the silence. He’s the only new crew member, the only one Jac hasn’t met. Joe is quirking an amused eyebrow at me, a slight tease in it, and oh come on. I’m the straightest guy in this room, so ha ha, could we please not even go there?

Jac nudges my side. “You didn’t tell me he’s gorgeous!”

Brendon looks at her, completely unimpressed. “What is it about women on this tour not having gaydars?” he asks Andy and simply walks away. The drugs are kicking in with Andy since he doesn’t seem to notice Brendon’s departure and instead asks Joe if the furniture is moving or if it’s just him.

No one is ever rude to Jac. Well, maybe Spencer is a bit cold towards her, but everyone else is like melted butter. Guys, at least. A lot of chicks seem to think of her as a threat, though, and Brendon technically is one of the chicks.

Maybe he’s jealous. Maybe he’s completely in love with me. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. He did kiss me, after all. But as flattering as that is, he needs to know that I won’t make a habit of pity make out sessions. Not that it was full on making out, of course, it just got a bit out of hand. It’s in the past. I’ve fucked girls with less retrospect than this. And what was it that Brendon said to me about that annoying Tracy chick? That it was a big deal if I made it a big deal. Good advice, actually.

So we kissed. So I do find him attractive, for some completely fucked up reason. But it’s not a big deal, and it doesn’t mean anything, either.

Jac is still staring after Brendon with a slightly affronted expression. “Never mind him, baby,” I tell her.

“Brendon’s on his period,” Joe supplies with a chuckle. “So we going to this club or what?”

We leave before Pete can follow us and bother everyone by saying when we should go, what we should drink, who we should fuck, who we shouldn’t fuck. Pete can ruin any party. It’s a magical skill, really.

I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a gag, but the club is actually a disco. It’s still a blur of alcohol and drugs, people dancing and laughing. A group of Joe’s acquaintances are already there, and we mix into a huge group wanting to have a good time. Jac disappears at some point, and I can’t find her, and I can’t find Brent either, or Joe, or Spencer, and I don’t recognise anyone around me for at least an hour, but I end up talking to some guy at the bar and doing tequila shots with him. I then find Spencer talking to some chick who is explaining about her one-year-old son, and Spencer, to my horror, seems genuinely interested as he asks if the son can talk or walk yet, and she explains eagerly, asking us if we’ve got kids, which we don’t, thank you, so I swerve in to save him from his boring fate.

Joe’s been getting shitfaced with some red-haired girl, and then Zack is telling me he thinks I’ve had a bit too much. Goddamn Pete’s minion, he should just relax. Jac and Brent return at the same time, and Jac and I go dancing as we kiss sloppily. She laughs against my mouth, and I’m glad she’s here.

“So he is gay,” she says, and I follow her gaze to the corner table hidden from most of the club, but visible from where we are. And there Brendon is with some guy. Again. Lips locked. “I thought maybe he was trying to make himself seem interesting.”

“He uses foreign versions of ‘Thank you’ for that,” I tell her. The guy he’s with isn’t even that good-looking. This isn’t a homo bar. He should be careful someone doesn’t beat him and lover boy unconscious. They’d deserve it too.

“Hey, eyes on me!” Jac demands. I wasn’t staring. Brendon sure goes around.

If we can see them, they can see us. I kiss Jac again.

Club, people, bodies. ‘Staff Only’ door, back hallway. She laughs. We share a joint. I want to get off. We skip goodbyes on the way out. The street is dark, but New York is hot as hell during summer. Taxi. Her hair, soft, soft. Indian taxi driver. I’m on the top of the world. Back at the hotel, can’t find my keys. A few fans in the lobby, waiting for the band. One says, “I’m Sisky! I’m your biggest fan!” The doorman intervenes and throws them out. I tip him. Jac laughs and swirls like she can hear music no one else can. The suite and into my room, finally. Bed. Pull my shirt off. Kiss her stomach, go down on her. My hard-on aching for release. I suck on her clit, try to focus on it. I practically rub myself against the mattress. Fucking hell, Brendon.

Jac sighs. “You _did_ miss me.”

I’m brought back to the reality of the situation, and that’s what I need her for.

I missed knowing who I am.

Her pussy is slightly swollen. She says not to go too fast when I push in. She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s sore. Who’s fucked her and when, I don’t know, but she could at least try to cover it up a bit more. She could make an effort to focus on the person she is with, not the person she secretly wishes it was.

The way I do.

* * *

The bell rings above the door, and I self-consciously hang my head and keep my sunglasses on as I step into the record store. If I get recognised some place, it would definitely be here. They’re even playing our new record, for god’s sake, though I smile at that.

I walk straight to the counter, and the black-haired man behind it asks, “What can I do for you?” as he keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him.

“I had a look around, but I can’t find any of the best disco music.”

He scoffs. “You so have the wrong pla –” He looks up and breaks into a grin. “Ryan! You goddamn dog!”

I grin. “Hey, man.”

Eric rounds the counter and comes to give me a big hug, quickly ushering me into the backroom. “Take over, would you?” he calls to the kid that is putting new records on display. The girl nods distractedly, singing along to my song. For once, I don’t mind.

The backroom is separated from the main shop only by a purple beaded curtain, but it’s enough shelter for me to take my sunglasses off. Eric’s gotten two beers from the fridge and he motions me to sit down in the clutter of the backroom. I sit by the table after lifting a pile of _Court and Spark_ LPs off the chair. The backroom is full of unopened deliveries, broken records, ads for gigs that have been already. There’s a notice board above the table with instructions like, ‘Wash your hands, you filthy pig’, ‘NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO PLAY SONNY AND CHER IN THIS SHOP’ and a more official ‘Eric’s Record Store’s Shift List’.

“How you been? How’s the tour going? I was wondering when you’d show your ugly face around here,” Eric beams. I know him from when he used to live in LA, moving to New York two years back when his band fell through. Not all of us can be famous. He started up his own record shop, made a nice fortune selling signed copies of our second album, and he’s already casually putting a dozen copies of _Boneless_ on the table. I take the marker from the clutter and start signing without him having to ask.

“This tour’s killing me, and I’m hungover,” I recap.

“Yeah, you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I note sourly. Eric reminds me of a hawk with his beak-like nose that shoots down to his wide mouth. He has big, brown eyes and high cheekbones, black hair that he keeps short, and a well-formed, muscular body. He’s older than me, around thirty, and maybe it’s the combination of age and his personality – sensible and calm – that has always made me feel like he knows things about life I could never hope to grasp. “So you’re coming to the show tonight?”

“Yeah, man. Backstage and all, it’ll be sweet. I was gonna come to the hotel like we agreed, but I’m happy to see you. _Boneless_ has been selling well, I ran out of copies two times last week.”

I finish signing the copies, and Eric smiles appreciatively. “So what’s up?” he asks. Yeah, I didn’t come here for nothing, and he knows it.

“Everything,” I chuckle and finally reach for my beer. “The band’s barely holding together. Joe and I, we just... His ego is too big for me to be in the same room with. And something’s up with Spencer, too, but I don’t know what. The only one I still have faith in is Brent. Well, as much faith as I can have in the guy, you know? I know he’d sell me out, that he’d put his own needs before the band’s, so that doesn’t necessarily get me far, but it’s something. And Jac, you remember her, right?”

“She makes an impression.”

“She’s here now. And it’s like... I don’t miss her when she’s gone. And that’s good, I never expected myself to miss her, you know? But now it’s like I wish I missed her. I wish she’d mean more to me than she does, that there’d at least be this one solid thing in my life, and it’s fucking crazy trying to find it in her. Just goes to show how desperate I’m getting. That scares me, man. It really does.”

Eric blinks at me from across the table. “And you’ve been keeping that inside for how long? Since Montreal?”

“Try since ‘73,” I laugh before finally coming to the big issue at hand. I just need to tell someone neutral, someone who won’t judge. “Have you ever slept with a guy?”

Eric’s eyebrows lift to his hairline in surprise. “No. Can’t say I have.” I try not to feel disappointed. I was hoping he might have. He kinda looks it. “Though I know people who have. Friends, you know.”

So I’m not the only freak he’s come across. Thank god. Well, here goes. To get it off my chest, to get feedback. Maybe he will knock some sense into me.

“I’ve been thinking about it lately. I never have either, I mean I’m not... like that. But there’s this guy.” This is where it gets difficult. Eric nods for me to go on, but I don’t know how. It’s bothering me how, as I fucked Jac, I wondered if Brendon was behind the wall listening, or if he never made it back to the hotel last night. Like maybe I want the disastrous kissing in Ottawa to mean something to him, that he can’t just brush it off. But I’ve been brushing it off. I’m not gay, just curious. He fascinates me, where he’s from, what he’s done... I’d want to know more, and the more he doesn’t tell me, the worse it is. I keep having this insane desire to be able to say that I know that man better than anyone.

“Some fan?” he asks, and I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Can’t say it’s one of the roadies since Eric will probably meet them all tonight.

“Let’s name him, um...”

“Brian,” Eric suggest, pointing at the cover of a copy of _Here Come the Warm Jets_. Damn good album. “Ryan and Brian. Cute.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Okay, Brian. And I think that I’m attracted to him. He’s attracted to me, I know that.” Not that Brendon’s ever said it, but he is. The way his fingers dug into my hip when we kissed... He was as into it as I was. “It’s me that’s stopping it going anywhere. I mean, I think if I... made a move, it might progress... But it confuses the hell out of me. I’ve never looked at a guy that way before. I’m not a fag, you know? I mean, you _know_.”

“Yeah, I totally know,” he assures me. He’s seen me with girls. Anyone who knows me has, so this whole thing is ridiculous. Eric hums and takes a long sip of his beer. He needs to talk some sense into me. Someone has to, and Brent, I don’t trust enough, and Spencer and I have grown apart too much this year. He doesn’t talk about Haley, and I won’t talk about my sexual identity crisis. Eric says, “Go for it.”

I choke on my beer. “Excuse me?”

“Why not? You’re clearly trying to suppress these urges, and it’s just driving you up the wall. Fuck the guy, get it out of your system. I mean, honestly, who isn’t trying what these days? Doing one guy won’t make you a fag, man. It’s not like you actually have feelings for the guy, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“So there you go! Just make sure he doesn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t brag about it either, you know? You don’t want that reputation. But if you’re discrete, then there is no reason for you not to do it.”

“Maybe,” I grant. I feel relieved and repulsed at the same time.

I finally have permission.

* * *

Do it and get it out of my system. Okay, it sounds fine in theory, but what about in practice? I oversimplified it with Eric, because what if after I’ve fucked Brendon, I’ll just want to do it again? What if this irrational want is so bad that it can last multiple reruns? What then? And why is the thought of me sticking my cock up Brendon’s ass not grossing me out? Lack of a father figure, of course, that’s why I’m this messed up. I keep picturing the way Brendon’s entire body jerks when I push in...

But I decide to test out Eric’s theory, anyway. In a roundabout way. It takes three days before I gather up the nerve to do it during which Brendon continues his ignoring-my-existence thing as well as ignoring Jac. Well, he certainly doesn’t forgive and forget... Moody little bitch. It’s like he wanted me to declare my undying love for him after one kiss. Sorry to disappoint the disillusioned fucker.

Jac spends her days shopping and meeting up with her NYC friends while I do my band duties. She comes to the show every night, though, and the after-party, and she always ends up in my bed sometime around dawn when we’ve both had enough to drink. And my patience to get here, gather the courage, is soothing in itself: if I was desperate to fuck Brendon and get it done, I could conveniently have squeezed it between lunch and soundcheck by now.

“Hey, Jac?” I say in between kisses, my fingers restlessly flexing on her inner thigh. We’re still mostly dressed.

“Yeah, baby?”

At least I’ll go down swinging...

“Can I, uh... Would you mind if I... go to the... other. Orifice?”

She freezes and breaks the kiss. She blinks beneath me. “You wanna fuck my ass?”

Pause.

“That’s what I was going for, yeah.”

I bite on my lower lip. We stare at each other. “You got anything to help us along?” she asks.

“No. But I could get something?”

Jac considers this. “Well, I’d need to go get ready first, so if I go do that, you go buy some lotion or whatever, and meet me back here in twenty?”

Well, that was easy. Eric was right. Everyone’s trying everything these days – no restrictions, no judging.

The sex is not quite what I expect. It’s different. Jac tells me to go slow, so I do, grabbing her hips as she stays on her hands and knees on the bed. She says it stings and laughs. The pressure around my cock is new. Pussies can be tight, and when chicks come, yeah, definitely tight. But this feels tighter without her even being close yet, provided she can come from this. And it’s hotter, somehow, and the slide is easier, I can go deep without having to worry I’ll hit bottom and have her bitch that I’m making her barren. Tighter, warmer, deeper. My mouth hangs open as I try not to be too overwhelmed. Jac is rubbing her clit with one hand, telling me to go faster now. God yes, finally.

My eyes roll to the back of my head as my eyelids flutter shut, and I let my hips snap forward, pushing into her, enjoying it far more than I thought I would. I figured it’d be weird, uncomfortable, would somehow feel like an abomination. I didn’t realise it’d feel like _heaven_. And Jac, well, she doesn’t even know what to do here, she’s staying still. Someone who knows, though, someone who knows how to move their body to this, take the thrusts, respond to it, how would that feel, how would Brendon feel –

“I’m gonna come,” I inform her with a rushed grunt though she’s not done. A flash of light takes over my mind as the orgasm washes over me, the best one I’ve had in a long, long time, and I ride it out, thrusting into her ass.

She comes a bit after from her nimble fingers working on herself. She says, “Huh,” like that was interesting, but then, “Ow, fuck,” when I pull out.

“Huh,” I agree, getting out of bed and pulling on a hotel robe, mumbling about getting a glass of water, _anything_ , to not let her see that I’m goddamn weak at the knees from that. Can’t let her know I enjoyed it too much, god knows what kind of a wrong impression that’d give. I bump into Brent in the living room despite it being around five in the morning, and he glares at me, and I mumble a sorry because I know we were not being quiet. But if the “oh god, oh god!”s are anything to go by, Joe and his visitor for the night are not being quiet either. On tour, you know so much more about your friends’ sex lives than you’d want to.

Brent follows me with his disapproving gaze, and I hope that he somehow magically doesn’t know what we did, what I talked Jac into, what I enjoyed far too much.

But even if he heard or suspects what we did, it’s not a big deal. My own idea worked: I got to experience the sexual act without getting involved with the roadie. And I enjoyed it, now I know, now my desire towards Brendon has vanished. There is nothing he could offer that I can’t already get.

Jac is already asleep when I get back. I could fall in love with her, I think. If I tried hard enough.

* * *

I spend all of the following day playing around with scenarios where Jac and I find it in ourselves to settle down, get married, have kids, move to the country. It’s funny what a bit of anal sex can do to a relationship. She winces whenever she sits down, and we both start laughing hysterically when Pete asks her if she is feeling alright.

Maybe it’s time for us all to grow up, and I could start with my relationship with her.

“It’s gonna be massive,” Joe says eagerly about the party we’re heading to after tonight’s show. We are in the dressing room, and I’m copying the night’s setlist for the rest of the guys out of boredom.

Andy and William are jamming with two of my guitars. I gave permission. Eric is there too, asking Spencer what he thinks of this whole Watergate scandal, and I have absolutely no idea what they’re referring to. Then my head snaps to the door, the cocktail party effect kicking in as my brain tunes out the rest when Brendon speaks. “Shit.”

Brendon is staring at his stained shirt, and Brent is dangling his beer bottle loosely. “Oops. Sorry,” Brent sneers. I can see that Brendon is suppressing a glare because we both know what kind of drama Brent could start from that. Brent’s made sure Brendon knows he is his slave on this tour.

“No biggie,” Brendon mutters and begins pulling his beer-drenched shirt off. I instantly focus on something else.

The room is filled with pre-show nervousness. It’s not quite as bad as on the first night here. Pete was right about them loving us in New York. He keeps saying how we should’ve played Madison Square Garden, and that’s what? Twenty thousand people? There is no way I could possibly do that.

It’s worrying how no one seems to understand that I have already been pushed to my limits.

Before we go on, Spencer comes over to tell me how we’ll be fine, how it’s just another show, how amazing I am on stage. And I believe him, and we go on, the crowd chanting and chanting. Jac remains by the side of the stage, waving at us happily. Only Brent waves back.

“Good evening, New York!” Joe screams into his microphone. “Again,” he adds with a grin, and we kick off. I usually don’t look at the crowds much, but I recognise the group of people in the front row, right ahead of me. They’ve been there the three previous nights too.

For some reason, every show seems to take longer than the previous one. Our ninety minutes feel like four hours, a six-minute song stretching to thirty in my mind. Joe basks in it, launching into a guitar solo, fingers swiping the frets as his hair flips around his head to the quick movements. I’ve started stepping backwards whenever I don’t need to sing, but it’s no use because the lights follow me, anyway.

We get off stage, wait for them to yell us back, go do the encore. The penultimate song, and Brent says, “We’d like to dedicate this song to a wonderful young woman who’s with us here tonight, so this is for you, Jac.”

I stare at my bassist in astonishment, but Spencer’s already shouting “One, two, three!” so I launch into the song which has nothing to do with Jac or girls or even love for that matter. Brent’s never been this considerate, and I realise that I am probably the worst boyfriend around when my bandmates need to step in and do the boyfriend-y things for me.

Once we’re off the stage, I ask, “What was that about?”

Brent shrugs. “Just being polite.”

Jac hurries over, beaming at us. “That was so sweet, thank you!”

I’m still frowning at Brent, but I make the best of the situation. “Anything for my girl,” I say with faux modesty, and Jac beams twice as much. Brent vanishes from sight.

The party takes place in the home of a multimillionaire producer, who hasn’t produced any of our stuff but is digging the new album. Pete tries to convince me to use the party as a business meeting, but I’m a bit too drunk for that, so I kindly tell him to fuck off. The guy’s place takes up the entire floor of the building, and it takes me five minutes to find a bathroom.

I’m taking a piss when someone walks in, the voices and music pouring in through the opened door. I look over my shoulder and spot Brendon, who’s stopped abruptly. “Sorry.”

He backs away, but I say, “I’m almost done, no problem. Not like you haven’t seen a dick before, right?”

His eyes thin dangerously as he closes the door. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I finish up, give my dick a tiny shake and zip myself up again. “I think I’ve seen you with three different guys this week, that’s what. Pretty soon you’ll have done every occasional homosexual we know in this city.” Our first proper conversation since the kiss, and this is the topic I choose.

“Just because you see me with some guy doesn’t mean I fuck them,” he snaps. “And secondly, it is not any of your business what I do.”

“Oh, it is. The band’s reputation could be at stake.”

“With Joe’s asshole superstar act and your pathetic woe-is-me show, I don’t think you guys need help from me.”

I take a moment to register his words before realising that the idiot just insulted me. “Hey!” I object.

“And you’re drunk like always, so what the hell is new?” He pushes past me and flushes the toilet. “Wash your hands, for god’s sake.” He proceeds to take a leak, and I mutter under my breath as I place my hands under the faucet.

I glare at him. “I get it now. This whole attitude you’ve been giving me. You’re just jealous.”

Brendon laughs loudly. “Of what?”

I wipe my hands to my jeans and lean against the counter. “Of Jac. You’re a bitch to her, you know.”

“Oh yeah, the girl and the friend, but not the girlfriend, and yet you’ve been trying to be the super couple this week. Don’t think I’ve not noticed that,” Brendon states and flushes the toilet. I watch him tuck himself away, trying not to make any sort of conclusions about the size of his flaccid cock, how big it’d be erected. “I know when a straight boy’s freaked out. You’ve got all the symptoms.”

“Don’t make this about me when it’s not!” I scoff. Brendon not-so-gently nudges me aside with his hip as he moves to wash his own hands. “I’ve got a loving, mature relationship, and it’s pissing you the hell off. Look, man, it was just a onetime kiss in another fucking country, and this is the reality. But I’m flattered, so thanks. Or merci, really.”

“No,” Brendon corrects me, now taking steps back. He’s beautiful when he’s angry. Jac never is. “I’m pissed off because you can’t take responsibility for your actions. That you think you can go around avoiding me. The rest, though? It’s just pity. You think Jac is the love of your life, but you can’t even see what’s right in front of your fucking eyes.”

“A nagging faggot?”

Brendon laughs disbelievingly. “I just might punch you right now. It’d be worth losing this job over it.” I partly hope he’ll punch me, that way he won’t be around anymore, everywhere I go. Jac and I have something real, but I was never sure of it until this week. I should thank Brendon, really. “I wasn’t going to say anything because it’s not my place. It’s obvious, but you all are too busy examining your own hands to even notice. And you’re messed up as it is, so maybe I don’t want to see you get even worse.”

I’m having difficulty deciphering his words. One whisky too many. “What the hell are you on about?”

Brendon has a weird mix of pity and anger in his eyes. “Just saying that maybe you should go check out the master bedroom.” He exits the bathroom, and a girl walks in, demanding that I let her pee in peace. I stumble out, not knowing what the hell Brendon tried to tell me. I ask a guy if he knows where the master bedroom is, and I end up stumbling down a quieter corridor, the walls covered in pictures of the producer with famous musicians. We want to get on that wall.

I find the right door, not at all sure what I am expected to find on the other side. I turn the knob and push the door open, partly expecting to see Brendon there, waiting for me to take him, thinking in his small brain that he can seduce me. But Brendon isn’t there.

Someone else is.

The bed is straight across from me, the large windows letting the lights of the city in, illuminating the couple fucking on the bed. The girl is riding the guy, her moans loud.

Jac and Brent are far too into it to acknowledge my presence.

I stare at the way Jac is moving wantonly on Brent’s cock, the way he pulls her down for a kiss, with familiarity that says this is not the first time, that they waited all day for this, for me to get drunk enough for them to slip away. Again.

My girlfriend and my bassist.

I don’t know how long I stand there, too shocked to say anything. Or to think.

I take hold of the doorknob and pull the door closed, then remain staring at its wooden surface, but still vividly seeing the porno taking place on the other side.

I close my eyes and count to ten before I walk away.


	9. The Disappearing Act

I remember the first time I visited New York back in the summer of 1969. I was eighteen, Spencer was seventeen. I had already erased high school from my brain, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d go back for his senior year. He didn’t in the end. I was going away for the summer, anywhere and everywhere. Spencer wasn’t sure if he could, though he had saved up money like I had. His mother did the whole ‘if you’re going to go down that road with that no-good Ross boy, then don’t you dare come back’ speech. We left the following day and hitchhiked across the country to stay with a girl Spencer had a thing with back then.

They had met during spring break. Carla was older than us, had just turned twenty, and she lived in a nice apartment in Soho that her dad had paid for. I spent my summer circling the New York music scene, staying in the guest bedroom, doing local mic nights and busking for pocket change. I just fucked about, no idea what to do with the sudden freedom. No Dad watching over my shoulder, no Dad for me to keep an eye on, no school, no expectations, no responsibilities. No one cared what I did. It was just me and the world and one beaten down guitar.

I had no idea who the hell I was, so I figured I could be just about anything.

When Spencer and Carla broke up loudly and irreparably in early August, we both got kicked out as plates came flying from the kitchen. I was bored of the city at that point, convinced I had grown past it, so when we heard of the music festival upstate, we left. Woodstock. The music clicked in the back of my brain there. I could see everything that was being played in a mix of colourful flashes, with shades and swirls, and the music was alive.

I finally got laid in Woodstock, which was a nice change. I got laid beyond belief, but so did everyone. I had wasted my own summer trying to woo a friend of Carla’s, this posh Upper East Side girl, who I should have known from the start would never give it up to a wannabe rocker from Las Vegas with no life ambitions or short-term plans, not even to cover the next ten minutes. In Woodstock, we met Brent, and he said that he was moving to Los Angeles, that it was the place to be right then. Spencer and I got a lift as far as Colorado Springs, and we hitchhiked back to Vegas from there. We packed our stuff and bought a ’56 van with our last cash. We had to live in it for a week before Brent found an apartment for the three of us.

Three months later, Brent, Spencer, Joe and I sat down at Chuck’s and decided on a band name.

I came to Radio City Music Hall a handful of times over our New York summer, always stuck on the third mezzanine somewhere, which was the best ticket I could afford. It’s a hell of a lot different headlining here – it’s a different world now, a different life, a different me.

Our gear is on stage, facing an empty venue. I gaze down from the first mezzanine, counting seats to give myself something to do.

“Hey.” I look to my side and spot Brendon smiling at me cautiously. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

I turn back to face the floor and the empty stage below. Zack crosses the stage, carrying guitar cables in his arms. He looks small from over here.

“Let them look.”

Brendon sits down next to me without an invite. I go back to counting seats. One, two, three – “I’m sorry,” he mutters – six, seven, eight... I lean back in my seat and shrug, lifting my legs on the railing. Brendon’s fingers nervously flex on his knees. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

But he did, anyway. Maybe because he was angry with me. I still didn’t deserve it, though.

“So what did they say?” he asks, and I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Jac and Brent.”

As if this were her cue, I hear Jac’s voice echoing from somewhere far away, from the stage. I don’t crane my neck to see her, and she probably can’t spot us among the thousands of seats waiting for tonight’s crowd. Last night in New York, and I feel the need to get the hell out, just like I did six years ago.

“Nothing,” I shrug, and when Brendon looks scandalised, I add, “They don’t know I know.”

“You did _nothing_?”

“It’s not my place. I know she’s not faithful. I’m not either,” I recap. Jac is not tied down to me.

I’ve been trying to figure out which surprises me more, Brent’s recklessness or Jac’s. This thing could end up in a shit storm. Is that how little Brent cares about the band? That he has to go and screw the one girl I’m involved with? Maybe that’s the exact reason why he’s done it. More rivalry, my own bandmates giving me the middle finger behind my back.

As for Jac... I always knew what she was like. But this past week, I so desperately wanted to love her. And now I know why Brent was trying to kill me with an icy glare. I hope Brent hasn’t been stupid enough to actually fall for her. I was never that stupid; I merely hoped I’d be.

“So who knows about them?” I ask Brendon.

Brendon hesitates. “Just you and me, I think. Andy would notice if he wasn’t high all the damn time, and I think Zack suspects it, but that’s only because he keeps an eye on Jac. He thinks she’s hot, so... But I figured it out. Call it an outsider’s intuition, I guess. And they’re not as subtle as they think.”

It was subtle enough for me to be blind to the fact. But it’s comforting to hear that not everyone’s known this entire time and haven’t all been laughing at me behind my back.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks, and I give him a blank look. “With all this hermit-like contemplation you’re doing up here, I figured you must’ve been thinking about what to do next.”

Call them out on it, make a scene, watch Jac yell and cry, punch Brent, quit the band, call her a whore, call Brent a backstabber, pretend to care. But the thing is that I do care.

“What to do now, what to do now...” I mumble in a wondering voice. I look at Brendon and cock my head to the side. “I was thinking I could let you blow me.”

Brendon stares at me in disbelief before scoffing loudly. His soft and concerned tone vanishes as his eyes narrow. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t wake up every day with an overwhelming desire to get on my knees and suck you off.”

“You sure about that?” I ask playfully, faux confidence he can probably see through.

What does he want me to say? That it hurts?

Fine, fuck. It hurts.

He shakes his head and stands up, and the dark cloud above me gets darker. He begins to walk away. I can’t win with anyone, moping around, being an asshole, trying to be okay, trying to change the subject.

“Hey,” I call after him, and Brendon stops reluctantly, his arms crossed over his chest. I take a deep breath and sit up straight, eyeing the stage where I will bear my soul in a handful of hours. “It’s just that...” I swallow and close my eyes. “You have this sudden realisation that you have no one you can trust. No one at all. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

Brendon’s arms drop to his sides. I look at him, needing for him to understand. “I do.”

Once he is gone, I go back to counting seats.

* * *

Jac leaves New York on the same day we do. We are now swirling down south and waiting for Florida, where we will finish the east leg. I kiss and hug Jac, tell her I love her and wonder if Brent did the same ten minutes before I did.

Brent clearly wants to be alone as he volunteers to drive us to Philadelphia. It’s rare for us to be driving during the day, but we waste time in the lounge, Spencer and William playing cards by the small table. Like the world is moving on and nothing is different now.

This feels a bit like drowning, watching this charade. Pete is complaining about beer stains on the couches, reminding us how the bus cost a fortune, and Joe is smoking a joint languidly, occasionally eyeing me like I’m a cockroach. Spencer moved to live inside his head approximately six and a half states ago, so he doesn’t even notice. Brent is most likely in love with my girlfriend, and Brendon. God, I don’t even know where to start with that guy.

Andy tries to start a conversation with me, but I snap an abrupt reply and hide behind my notebook, scribbling furiously.

I have no friends left on this bus. No one’s looking out for me; it’s every man for himself. I’m not stupid. I always knew Brent wasn’t a guy I should trust too much, but I still thought that, beneath all of his bullshit, he considered me his brother. Or even a distant fucking cousin. They all secretly despise me, so I despise them back.

But, of course, they don’t understand this, too wrapped up in their pathetic, meaningless lives to even suspect that I’m onto them. Joe has the nerve to ask if I’m feeling alright, and Pete eyes me worriedly, asking if I’ve caught a cold. And Brent asks me to go out for a beer with him once we get to our hotel. We’re doing another row of shows in Philly and are leaving the bus to wait for us to be done with the place. I don’t want to go for a beer with Brent. Does he want to compare notes, determine which one of us gets Jac off quicker? I’d rather stick nails into my eyes.

So I find the nearest liquor store, buy four packs of cigarettes and two bottles of vodka, find my goddamned hotel room, and I successfully avoid all human contact until the next day. I do the soundcheck on automatic, the show on automatic, the after-gig high-fives on automatic, decline the afterparty invite on automatic, and go get drunk in my room on automatic.

On our second day in Philadelphia, Zack is sent to drag my ass to the venue. I’m late for soundcheck when I walk on stage, the rest of the band and crew ready. Zack had to knock and yell for a good twenty minutes before I opened the hotel door. The world is still spinning. Good.

Spencer’s talking to Brent, but he stops at the sight of me. “Fuck, Ryan, what happened? You look like shit.”

“I’m peachy,” I say, shrugging my jacket off, letting it fall on the stage floor. I grab a guitar from Andy, plug it in, switch the amp on and go to my mic. The buzz of the guitar fills the air. The venue is empty except for a few cleaners. They’ll do as a crowd.

Pete hurries over to me. “Have you slept?”

“No.”

“You want me to get you sleeping pills?”

“I think they’d go well with the vodka,” I muse. “You know, that sounds good. Yeah, please give me some.”

All the respectable musicians are gone anyway: Alan, Jim, Duane, Danny, Janis, Jimi, Berry. Dying young is the newest fad. I sure as hell don’t want to miss the boat.

Pete glances at the microphone, which has carried our voices for everyone to hear. He covers it with his hand, a metal screech echoing through the PA. He lowers his voice. “Ryan, look. If you’re going through some shit... Or is this about Jac leaving? I’ll get her on this tour, man. I’ll call her, fly her over, you say the word. Whatever it takes for you to pull your shit together.”

As he’s been babbling, I’ve gotten out a cigarette and lit it. He stares at me expectantly, and I blow the smoke in his face. “Like I said, Petey, I’m peachy. Now let’s play some fucking music!” I snap, already strumming a few chords impatiently.

The soundcheck ends when I’m pleased with the result and walk off stage without any proper warning to the others. Brendon is standing backstage with a half-finished beer bottle in his hand, and I take it from him, mumbling, “Thanks.” Brendon stares at me like I’m trouble embodied. Pete calls after me, but I find my way out of the venue without stopping.

I’m not pushing them – they have pushed me to push them.

I stop outside, blinking at the sun and fumbling my pockets for sunglasses. God, the sun is way too bright today.

“Ryan, would you slow down?!” Spencer’s voice comes demandingly, the venue backdoor slamming. I’m still looking for sunglasses as he glares at me. “Look at me! Jesus, look at me when I’m talking to you!” he complains. “What the hell is this, coming for a soundcheck late and drunk?”

“Are you Pete now?”

“I’m your friend! I’m just about the only person who hasn’t given up on you, but for some reason you want to change that!”

I try to think of something Spencer’s done, but can’t think of anything. Surely, he’s done something. Well, he’s shut me out, I could be mad for that. But he chose me, chose this band, so maybe I don’t have the right to tell him that I miss him. I fucking miss him. I know he doesn’t have his heart in this anymore. “If you’re my friend, you’ll let me be,” I tell him instead.

“Sometimes, I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he whispers sadly, and the backdoors open as the rest of my band comes out with Pete on their heels.

“That’s my cue,” I tell him, sliding the sunglasses on. I disappear in between tour busses and finish Brendon’s beer as I go.

I don’t show up until fifteen minutes before we go on that night. They’re furious, but at least I show up and play the songs and sing my words, and then I take off again, having found a good bar down the road, so sleazy no one would ever look for me there. I go to the payphones around one in the morning and call Dad. He’s not home, of course; he’s in a bar of his own. What the hell would I say to him, anyway? I’d probably just call him an asshole and hang up. Unproductive, but satisfying.

They throw me and Davey out of the bar when it closes. Davey’s had a fight with his wife and doesn’t want to go back to his house, and I don’t want to go to the hotel where they will find me. We find a park and sit on a bench, sharing stories about our lives. I make mine up as I go along. I always do.

“My wife, I tell you she’ll be the death of me. That- that bitch! Only married her because she said it was tying the knot or breaking up. You know what that is? Blackmail! That’s blackmail, right? Right?” Davey demands to know. “So you’ve been married four times?”

“Five, but I don’t count that Vegas one. Got it annulled,” I tell him.

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah.”

Then someone is pointing at me with a bright light, a cop telling us to move along. It’s a public park. We’re not even drinking anymore, which is a shame, all things considered. Davey tells the cop to fuck off, so I do too. Then there’s another cop, and they’re talking big and making threats.

I stand up. A bit wobbly, but I manage it. “You two, officers of the law. Listen, okay? Just listen. Me and my good, good friend Davey are just... having a good time. A good time right here in –” I take a look around and start laughing, “– whatever city this is. But you won’t let us. So... So the thing I want to say is...” I hold a dramatic pause until I just snicker. “That you can suck my cock.”

Davey howls in laughter, hand on my shoulder, slurring, “Good one, oh man, good one!”

I wipe my eyes and laugh uncontrollably. I focus my eyes on the cops and frown. “Hey, what do you need the handcuffs for?”

* * *

Pete hands me my sunglasses, and I put them on, needing something to protect me from the sunlight. Pete keeps a guiding hand on my shoulder, and a simple thank you dies in my dry throat. I only feel nauseous and achy from spending my night on a jail bed. My stomach burns from last night’s alcohol, even more so than usual.

“You missed soundcheck, but you’ll be alright for the show,” Pete smiles in a friendly, confident tone. A car is waiting for us outside the police station, and Pete hands me the cup of coffee he had with him. Black, and I scrunch my nose. “It’ll sober you up,” he explains. He gives me a few painkillers.

When we get to the venue, I sulk behind Pete, wanting to go sleep this off. Venue workers and members of the support band are waving and greeting me with obvious curiosity. Everyone knows I went MIA. Everyone knows of the huge search party. I know nothing, I was passed out.

The dressing room quiets down when Pete and I walk in. I slowly remove my sunglasses, taking them in. Spencer is standing by the mirrors. Brent and Joe are on one of the couches. Half-eaten food lies on the table, and my stomach grumbles at the sight. I have no idea when I last ate.

“So, Ryan is back, alive and well. We don’t need to cancel the show. Everything’s fine,” Pete announces calmingly. “Anything you need, Ry?”

“Fries?” I ask hopefully.

“William?” Pete asks.

“I’m on it,” William says slightly grudgingly and leaves the room. I go to an unoccupied couch and sit down, finishing the coffee and battling my hangover from hell. They are all staring at me. Brendon is in the far corner, silently cleaning Brent’s bass.

“How about you, uh... go for a shower?” Pete suggests, handing me my toiletries bag.

I spend a good five minutes brushing my teeth, getting off the layer of shit that is covering my mouth. I shower off the cigarettes, alcohol, Davey – a good guy, really – last night’s show, the stale smell of piss that lingered in the jail cell. Pete’s picked out clean clothes from my bag, and I pull on a pair of black jeans, a brown button down shirt and throw a vest on top. The guys are talking in argumentative tones when I re-enter from the bathroom, but they quiet down instantly.

A full plate of fries is on the table by one of the couches, so I sit down and start munching. Fuck, I’m starving. “What’s tonight’s setlist?” I ask distractedly, and Andy passes me a tiny piece of paper with a list of songs in Spencer’s messy handwriting. I take a quick look through it. “You guys sure you want _Go to the City_ after _Alienation_? I think that might create an anticlimactic moment.” I lift a questioning eyebrow. My bandmates look at me disbelievingly.

The tension breaks when Joe snaps, “That’s it? That’s all you have to fucking say?!”

Pete intervenes with, “We talked about this, guys! It happens! It’s no big deal! What matters is that the show goes on!”

“He got fucking arrested! Are we going to sit here and pretend that’s okay?!” Joe demands and stands up, cold, blue eyes piercing through me. “Look, I drink and take drugs just as much as the next guy, but I never disappear or jeopardise a show! This entire tour we’ve been keeping our mouths shut like we don’t know, but I’m done! We know, man! You can’t fucking handle the pressure! You’re just not cut out to be a professional musician –”

“Are you saying I’m not professional?” I ask. Joe quiets down, a finger still pointed at me and hovering in the air. “At least I don’t go around acting like I’m the greatest gift to music since Elvis Presley. You think that the crowd out there has come to see you? It’s the music that matters! The fucking music, Joe! But your ego has inflated so much that you can’t see past it anymore! You love yourself more than this band or the music, and _I_ have to deal with that! If I go on stage drunk, then take a look in the mirror and ask yourself why!”

“Oh, it’s my fault?! Someone needs to entertain the crowd, and guess what? You don’t. Unless this is your entertainment value, the attitude, the martyrdom, the disappearing act and then coming back here and bitching about the setlist when you fucking well know we’ve been obsessing over the tracks like we do every night!”

“Just chill,” Brent says.

“No!” Joe refuses while I stare at Brent in disbelief.

“Chill?” I repeat, astonished. “You’ve got some nerve to tell me what to do, you backstabbing piece of shit.”

“Okay, time out!” Pete yells as Brent looks at me in surprise.

“I’m not finished!” Joe objects. “You fucking left last night! We’ve been calling local hospitals, not sure if you bailed on us and took the first bus out of here! Not sure if this tour is over! Not sure if you’re lying somewhere, suffocating on your own vomit! You don’t just walk out on us, you arrogant prick!”

I stand up so fast that the plate of fries gets knocked over when my shins bump against the table. “You’d want me to go, huh? Maybe then you could sing the vocals too and play the frontman of my band!”

“This band is collective! It’s not yours, man! Fuck!”

Spencer sighs audibly. “We don’t really have time for this.”

“Oh, like you even care anymore,” I spit angrily.

“Excuse me? I’m here, aren’t I? Don’t start with me, Ryan. I’ve given up so fucking much for this band.”

“My god, here we go with the Haley thing again!” I laugh. “Here’s advice for you: get over it. This sad puppy thing lost its charm months ago! She used you! She fucking used you, and you still think she was the love of your life! Wake up and smell your own bullshit!”

“You have no right to talk to me that way! You know nothing about her, and if you don’t stop now, I swear to god –”

“Oh, please,” I snort.

“I’m fucking tired of you getting special treatment!” Joe barks. “I’ve had it up to here with your own room on the bus, your holier-than-thou attitude, letting you get away with all your fuck ups. Spencer might be doing his sad puppy thing, but it’s a fucking lot better than your tortured artist act! Look around! We’ve got it all! And yet, you don’t get it. You just don’t.”

“Okay, alright,” Pete rushes out, “let’s get that negative energy out! Good, good!”

“I try to enjoy being in this band, but you make it practically impossible,” Joe states.

“Then I quit,” I reply.

“Whoa! Too much negative energy!” Pete says, slightly panicked.

“Then quit! It’s what you’ve wanted to do for the past year!” Joe snarls.

“And I’m finally doing it. Good luck trying to conquer the world without me,” I spit and walk out, the door slamming into the wall as I go. Pete is yelling how we all need to calm down and how no one is quitting the band, but I am.

I am done.

One of the sound engineers walks past me, saying, “Yo, Ryan, forty minutes before you go on!” He gives me a thumbs-up. I can hear the crowd that I will never see.

I get to our bus outside the venue, but realise I have no means of getting inside the vehicle. I swear and kick the bus. Fine, I don’t need my stuff. I will hitchhike back to Los Angeles if I have to, or I’ll steal a car, or something. I look down at my tour pass hanging around my neck, and I quickly take it off. I throw it onto the ground and stomp on it. Fuckers, fuckers, _fuckers_ –

“That’s mature.”

Brendon is leaning against the bus with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, and he looks highly unimpressed.

“What do you want?” I snap.

“I’m making sure you don’t leave. Pete’s orders. He’s doing damage control at the other end.”

“You got a fucking key for this thing?”

Brendon goes through his pockets before pulling out a bundle of keys, and I motion for him to open the damn bus. He obeys, and I hurry inside, through the lounge, the bunks and into the back nest.

I stop and look around. “Shit!” I groan. My stuff is in the hotel. I still have clothes and books and drugs on the bus, though, but no bag to throw them in. Plus, I want to take my guitars too, all of my equipment to the last goddamn bridge pin. It’s my stuff, not theirs. I can carry it all with me somehow. Brendon has followed me, and I squeeze past him back to the lounge where I find a plastic bag. He remains by the door when I return and start collecting my belongings.

“Don’t try talking me out of this! It’s final!” I bark, though he hasn’t said anything. He closes the door, though, maybe thinking that he can lock me up in here until Pete comes to try and make me change my mind.

I stuff shirts into the plastic bag. Brendon places a hand on my shoulder, and I try to pull away from the grip. But he’s strong because suddenly he’s got me pressed against the wall by the door. I stare at him, confused. His eyes fly over my face, the brown of his eyes darker than usual. “Get off me,” I snarl and try to push him, but he slams me right back to the wall. Air escapes my lungs.

Brendon launches forward and kisses me. My stomach flips, a burning desire to kiss him back taking over. His lips over mine, aggressive and demanding, coaxing my mouth open. I respond without thinking, attacking his mouth fervently, still so goddamn angry.

Here I am again. Fuck, I –

Our tongues brush unapologetically, a jolt of electricity running up and down my spine. I push him off me violently, and he stumbles backwards. “Don’t,” I command, but he takes a step towards me. “I’m not like that. I’m not into this stuff.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he says simply, his voice rough and pupils blown. I lick my lips, trying to regain control.

Fuck it.

I fist his shirt and pull him back for a kiss, our tongues pressing together. His hands are instantly on my belt, unbuckling. He whispers, “Can you get hard for me?” That’s a useless question because my dick has been very intrigued ever since his lips first met mine. He cups my half-hard cock and smiles against my mouth wickedly. “Good.”

No, this is fucking bad.

And then he’s pulled my jeans down. I’m not wearing underwear. I stop to consider this, to take a moment, but he nips at my jaw before he sinks down onto his knees. He’s not actually – Guys don’t do these things to _each other_ , so there is no way that he –

“You’re beautiful,” Brendon says, addressing either me or my cock, I’m not sure. His fingers dance over the length, one hand curling around the base and squeezing. I bite on my lip so as not to whimper. His other hand is brushing the inside of my left thigh, incredibly distracting. He wraps his soft lips around the tip of my erection, tongue flicking over the slit. I grunt, trying to catch up, my bones instantly melting. He takes more of me into his wet mouth, so clearly used to doing this. He sucks hard, and my hands move to his short, soft hair. Okay, yeah. I can live with this. I can – No. Fuck, fuck, what am I doing?

He takes me in deeper. God, his mouth feels amazing. My body relaxes into it, fire flickering at the pit of my stomach as my entire body feels overly sensitive. I wanted him on his knees for me, and he is. Fuck, he’s so hot.

Just when I think I’m used to the rhythm and suction he is applying, he removes the hand he has at the base and swallows me down. “Shit,” I hiss, and my grip of his hair tightens. Holy fucking hell. His head is moving steadily, taking me deeper, pulling back, then deeper again. I stare down at him, amazed, and he’s got his eyes closed, long lashes against flushed cheeks. His lips are stretched around my cock, shiny with his spit. I try to remember how to breathe.

“Fuck,” I practically whine, the back of my head banging against the wall. He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I swallow as a flame flickers in me violently. I grab the back of his head with both hands, and he lets me, my hips trying to move to his rhythm. My cock just slides into his wet and hot mouth, and he doesn’t gag at all. His hands settle on my thighs where his blunt nails dig in. My hips are working, small movements but enough to be fucking his mouth, and he meets my thrusts with his mouth, my thick cock sliding between his swollen lips.

My breathing is shaky, and my body is trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s good. Brendon’s hands move to my ass, gripping the flesh, kneading, and I moan helplessly and begin to fuck his mouth with more force.

A dirty feeling keeps flashing in my head, having Brendon on his knees for me here. I still hear the echoes of the fight in my head, and how they don’t understand, no one does. But Brendon might. He’s gotten on his knees for me, mouth full of my cock, and he just might understand.

He pulls back, though, having to push my hand away from his head. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and dark. My cock slips out of his mouth, and his pink lips are swollen and slick. He grabs the base of my cock, giving me a few strokes that make my toes curl. “You taste good,” he whispers, lips brushing over the head with a moist slide. His lips feel fucking soft. His voice is rough and thick with want, and it hits me how turned on he is from this. Fuck, he shouldn’t be. I, at least, have the excuse of getting head, and of course I get off on it, regardless of who is doing it. Even if it’s another man doing it. But Brendon is getting off on having my cock in his mouth, and I can’t wrap my head around it, what the appeal is, what turns him on about it.

Brendon places hungry, wet kisses along the shaft. Fuck, it’s like he is taking care to worship every inch of me. He licks up a trail before slipping his mouth over the swollen, leaking head. I groan, hips automatically thrusting forward. He responds with a moan that vibrates around me and flies up and down my spine, and then he takes me in all the way again, hands on my hips.

It doesn’t take me long to come. It’s not sexual frustration, but somehow, it is. Finally, he’s where I wanted him a dozen shows ago, and he’s loving it. I fucking knew he’d love it, but I didn’t realise how much I’d love it. “Brendon, fucking hell,” I rasp. “I’m gonna come, gonna come...”

He pulls back, hand curling around the base, quick strokes there, sucking the tip of my cock into his mouth with hollow cheeks, his tongue licking and brushing over the slit. I come with all of my body, nearly doubling over and with my hips thrusting, holding his head still as the rush takes over. My cock twitches, and Brendon moans, tongue still moving, swallowing. And I come and come and –

“Fuuuuck, fuck,” I pant, finally coming to a stop.

I let go of him, absolutely wrecked. He pulls back, my spent cock slipping out of his mouth. He moves to place small, wet kisses on my stomach where the muscles are still quivering, tongue tracing my hipbone. My arms hang by my sides as I lean against the wall for support, trying to come down. I’m weak at the knees. His mouth. Fucking hell, his _mouth_.

Brendon zips me up and buckles my belt before standing up. His cheeks are flushed, and I grab him, pulling him in for a kiss. His mouth is still so slick, and he responds, hot and pliant. I can taste myself on his tongue and lips, I can smell myself on him, my crotch and come, mixing with his own scent in a perverse way. His erection presses against my thigh. A slight sense of panic flies in me from it, but at the same time, my guts twist with the excitement of it. Something new, something I shouldn’t do.

Brendon breaks the kiss, but our foreheads keep touching, our noses brushing together. We’re both equally out of breath. “You’re going to go to the venue and get on stage. Okay?” he whispers. His tone is firm but gentle, and I find myself nodding.

“Okay.” If he says so. Okay.

“Good,” he says with a small smile, kissing me again, and I hungrily pull him closer.

If we keep kissing, I’ll get hard again, and I can’t come again this soon, not after that. No way after that. I break the kiss and press my face to his neck and breathe him in, hanging onto him. I have to let go of him. Just a fucking blowjob, I need to get a grip. Now. Okay, now. Fuck. One, two, three –

We break apart, and Brendon wipes his swollen lips and wet mouth. “Your clothes,” he says, and I look down, confused, brain not working. Then I start straightening my dishevelled shirt and vest, realising how obvious that’d make it for the others. “I need a minute,” he says roughly. My eyes land on his crotch. I can see the outline of his cock through his jeans.

“Yeah, sure,” I swallow, wondering if he is going to jerk off – he probably is – if he’d let me watch, would I want to? And I somehow feel stuck to where I am, but once I’ve walked out, it’s easy.

I get out of the bus and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Fucking hell.

My backstage pass is still lying on the ground. With shaking hands, I pick it up and put it around my neck.

* * *

Brendon plays it off better than I do. I’m not pretending it didn’t happen, but I don’t plan on letting the others in on it either. Brendon, though, acts exactly like he did before. I try to go for the same effect, but my thoughts are so muddled that I can’t.

The guys assume it’s because of the fight. We all mumble bitter and forced apologies, and Pete goes around patting shoulders, convincing us that we all need each other.

The only thing I feel sorry for is saying the things I said to Spencer. I can’t be angry with him just because we’ve grown apart. It’s not like he has done anything like Brent and Joe have. I try to apologise, but he brushes me off.

We get to Pittsburgh in one piece, but with a deafening silence on the bus. Brent is counting days until our break with his fingers. I haven’t gotten drunk since the night I got arrested, followed by the day Brendon... I can relive the incident better when I’m sober. And maybe I do feel bad for the guys. I’m not completely heartless. I disappeared, and they freaked out. But I had my reasons. I had my rights.

Spencer is helping the roadies on stage when I walk over to him. “So we’re leaving for Cincinnati tonight?” he asks Brendon, who nods. “How long that’ll take us?”

Brendon stretches, a pondering look on his face and arms raised above his head. His t-shirt lifts up, exposing a slice of his stomach. “Like, six hours?” I focus on the exposed V of his hips.

“If we manage to leave around midnight,” Spencer muses thoughtfully.

“What’s the hurry?” I ask him, and he flinches, clearly unaware I was present. “I think we’ve got a day off after tomorrow. What the hell is there to do in Cincinnati?”

Spencer shrugs, and Brendon goes back to putting together Spencer’s drum kit. “Can I talk to you?” I ask Spencer, who takes his time before reluctantly nodding. We walk to the edge of the stage, and I lower my voice. “Look, I’m sorry about the things I said. You know I didn’t mean them, right? I was just pissed off.”

“Sure,” he nods.

“You’re still my best friend, despite everything,” I add with just slight desperation. “I’d want to... talk to you. When you’ve got time.” We both have plenty of time right then, but he just nods again.

“What do you want to talk about?”

My eyes land on Brendon behind his shoulder, now talking to William animatedly and laughing brightly. I tear my eyes off of him. “I just... feel like I’m being sucked into this thing. And I don’t know if I should because, no matter what I tell myself, I just know it can’t end well. But despite that, I want to. It’s kind of terrifying, actually,” I laugh nervously, but Spencer seems unaffected.

“Sure, when we’ve got time,” he shrugs, concluding the conversation. I have no idea how to make it up to him. I probably just can’t.

I cross the stage again, and Brendon says, “Hi.” I stop in my tracks, overly aware of the people around us. He is setting up the hi-hat, sitting on Spencer’s stool behind the kit. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” I pause. “You?”

“Just fine,” he smiles. Unlike after the kiss in Ottawa, I haven’t been avoiding him. We haven’t talked about it, but that’s because we haven’t had the opportunity to. Brendon is eyeing me up and down slowly now, and I can feel warmth at the back of my neck.

“What?”

“You just...” He bites on his bottom lip and laughs slightly. “You just look good today.”

Obvious flirting. Walk away now before this gets even worse.

“You too,” I say casually. I’m flirting back. God, my mother must have accidentally bashed my brain in when I was a baby.

“We get to stay in a hotel in Cincinnati. That’ll be good,” he comments.

“Never nice when we have to stay on the bus for a long time.”

“I completely agree. Hey, uh, when we get there, I could drop by your room,” he suggests. “Just like to hang out or whatever.”

Or whatever.

“Um, yeah, I don’t know what our schedule is gonna be, but, uh, I’ll let you know when I know?”

“Okay,” he says, and I’m trying to determine whether he’s pissed off. He doesn’t seem to be.

“But I’ll probably have time,” I blurt out. He smiles. I smile back and walk away, trying not to notice how my fingertips are tingling.

What the hell am I doing?

* * *

I finally understand why the boys were upset when we get to Cincinnati. Spencer vanishes. Most of us were asleep when he left, but Brendon drove us here, and he says that Spencer left the bus the second we arrived, hailed a taxi and was gone. Spencer said to tell us that he’d be back later.

“Now I know why you were so pissed,” I tell Joe, who is gritting his teeth and looking around like he wants a knife so he can cut his wrists open because he has given up on this band.

“You, I can imagine taking off, even Brent, but Spencer?! He’s already missed soundcheck! We’ve got a show in two fucking hours!” Joe complains, walking in circles in the dressing room. “That’s it, I am so quitting this band.”

“Joe, just sit back, have a drink, snort some heroin,” Pete offers hurriedly, sitting him down. Joe groans, and Pete starts rubbing his shoulders with steady circular motions. “I’ll find him, no worries.”

The radio in the corner is playing CCR, and Brendon is singing along quietly. “I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk,” he hums in his perfect voice, creating a surprisingly soothing effect for the rest of us. I feel myself split in two: worry and nervousness. Spencer’s missing, and it’s hotel night. Everything is falling apart, falling on me, and I can’t stop any of it. Brendon looks at me, heat in his gaze. He wants me. I know he does.

I can’t think about it now. I have to focus. And besides, I’m not going to. I might let him blow me again, but that’s as far as that’ll go.

“I’ll go see if he’s around. You never know,” Andy offers. As he exits the dressing room, I’m pretty sure he only wants a stress free environment.

“Baby, I love you,” Brendon sings, drumming against his thigh, “Suzie Q.”

I stop. I blink at him.

Shit.

“Be right back,” I hurry to tell the others and run after Andy. I find him eventually in the canteen, smoking a joint with the support’s bassist. “Andy! Dude, fuck, remember when we were in, uh... Toronto! Remember Toronto?”

“Vaguely,” he agrees.

“Remember we sent postcards?” I go on urgently, and he is quirking an interested eyebrow at me. “Spencer sent this postcard! To Suzie Smith in Cincinnati! His cousin? You put the stamps on, remember?”

His expression brightens. “I remember! Give me a minute... Hang on...” He closes his eyes, and I hold my breath. He’s got a photographic memory. He must have read the address line. He must have. Andy opens his eyes. “3 Eliza Street.”

“You sure? You really fucking sure?”

Andy nods in confirmation, and I feel relieved. “Tell them I’ve gone to get Spencer, alright?” I ask him, my eyes spotting an exit sign.

“What if he’s not there, man?” he asks as I’m already heading out.

“He better fucking be!” I tell him, and Spencer will be. I’ve known that kid since forever. I’ve got him figured out.

But when the taxi stops outside 3 Eliza Street twenty minutes later, I no longer feel too sure. It’s a small, cosy looking house in an area of small, cosy looking, family friendly houses. I get out of the car, feeling as out of place as a Satanist in Sunday mass.

The mailbox next to the driveway says ‘The Smiths’. It’s the right place. If Spencer wants to visit family, then fine, but it’s not cool to just disappear on us.

I firmly walk to the steps of the house, ringing the doorbell. Maybe they’ll invite me in for dinner, too, seeing as I’m technically Spencer’s family. I haven’t had a homemade meal since Chicago, since Cassie fixed up something for me and Jon. But mostly, though, I plan to scold Spencer and then drag him back with me before we all lose our minds.

A young woman opens the door with a bright smile, an apron around her, shiny, brown hair hanging to her shoulders, and my voice dies in my throat. She sees me and freezes. Blood leaves her face as her expression goes from friendly and inquisitive to shocked.

What is she doing here?

“Ryan,” Haley manages, voice alarmed.

“Hi,” I spit out. I push past her into the house without an invite. “You think this is fucking funny?” I snarl, spinning around to glare at her, and Spencer’s ex-girlfriend is at a loss for words. I look around the small entrance hall, seeing pictures framed on the wall – Spencer and Haley, Haley’s parents – And then. Then there’s one of Spencer and Haley. He’s in a tuxedo. She’s in a white dress. She’s holding a bouquet of red roses. “What the hell is going on here?” I ask in astonishment.

“Honey!” Spencer’s voice comes from the next room over, and when Haley is too afraid to move or even speak, I follow the sound. I walk into a kitchen that is decorated in bright yellow and smells of apple pie. Spencer’s got his back to the door, his messy and dirty on-tour hair sticking out in places, everything in him not fitting in this picture. “Come look at how natural your husband is at feeding our little girl!”

“What?” I whisper quietly.

Spencer spins around and sees me. He is holding a newborn baby, a bottle of milk in his hand. His eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. The baby lets out a cry.

My best friend is speechless. That makes two of us.


	10. If He Can Feel My Heart

“Ryan! Would you just wait up?!”

I ignore the request and keep heading down the street. Two blocks isn’t far enough from that house, three blocks isn’t enough.

“Okay, you’re mad! I get that!”

Mad? Spencer thinks I’m mad? I’m leaving in an attempt not to goddamn kill him, but no, now he is concerned, _now_ he wants to talk.

Spencer finally catches up with me, blocking my way. I round him, but he only blocks me again, now taking a hold of my shoulders. I snap free and punch him, my fist flying forward on its own accord, my knuckles hitting his jaw. It’s a lousy punch, but I wince and protectively pull my hand back. Spencer is holding his jaw with a pained expression. “Fuck, man! Was that necessary?!” He looks up at me, meets my gaze, and instantly adds, “That was necessary.” I try to get past him again, but he stops me. “Let me explain, would you? It’s not what you think it is!”

“So you haven’t married Haley behind our backs? You don’t have a fucking kid with her?!” I ask pointedly.

“So maybe it is what you think it is.”

“Fuck you! You know that? Fuck you!” I snap, spotting a taxi coming down the street and hailing it over. It drives past me. I swear more, going through my pockets hastily. Spencer offers me a cigarette, and I snatch it, bringing it to my lips hastily.

I light it as Spencer whispers, “I’m sorry.” He looks sorry. He sounds sorry too, but it’s not good enough.

“You’ve had all this time to tell me, but you haven’t. Instead, you’ve lied. Constantly. To my face,” I recap furiously, not sure what pisses me off the most. The betrayal. The wife. The kid? Lying to the band, lying to me. I’m his best friend. I thought I was. “I knew something was up, but I never,” I snarl.

I thought they broke up months ago, last goddamn year. Months of lying? It sickens me. He’s an actor, nothing more.

“I had no choice,” Spencer hurries to say, and my hand curls into a fist again, wanting to take another hit. Had no choice? No one forced him. Whatever decisions he made, he made them willingly.

And a kid is for life. What was he thinking? _Was_ he thinking? Spencer’s not in my world like I thought. All this time he has been living here instead, down the road in that shitty house with that slice of picket fence America, a wife and kid and a handful of values that would never survive in my world.

I lost my best friend months ago and didn’t even know.

Another taxi is coming down the street, and it slows down as I hail it over. “Look, let’s talk about this!” Spencer says hurriedly.

“We’ve got a show in an hour. I don’t have time to talk about it; I only came to get you.” The car stops in front of me, and I open the back door. Spencer is looking over his shoulder worriedly. “Oh my god,” I whisper, closing my eyes and trying to calm down. “You go say goodbye. I’ll wait in the car. Two minutes.”

“Okay,” Spencer mutters, probably realising that he shouldn’t argue with me right now.

I try not to look to the door of the house when Spencer comes out, but I do, anyway. Haley’s there, the picture perfect wife holding a baby. That baby can’t even be a month old. Spencer kisses them both before he jogs to the taxi, knowing the schedule we’re on. Haley waves. I don’t wave back.

We take off. I’m too angry to speak, so I focus on grinding my teeth together and staring into the distance. Spencer sighs once, maybe trying to get my attention. He sighs again, louder. Finally, he says, “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“No, no – You didn’t want me to find out. Period.”

“Because I knew you’d react like this!”

“Don’t! Don’t turn this around and make it my fucking problem!” I growl, and the taxi driver starts eyeing us through the rear-view mirror with a worried expression. I don’t plan to bleed on his backseat. “How old is it?” Spencer lifts an eyebrow, and I hiss, “The baby.”

“Suzie,” he says with this messed up, proud dad voice. “Three weeks. We were, uh... We were in Cleveland when Haley...”

“And the wedding?”

“In January.”

One blow after another. I was with Spencer when his daughter was born. He didn’t tell me. I try to think back to January, but can’t. We were busy finishing recording, so I have no idea when he found the time to elope. They had already split up then. They must have planned it all. Haley bought a wedding gown with the money Pete supposedly bribed her with. Pete was happy she was out of the picture. So were we. She was pregnant. Spencer knew. Spencer pretended to be heartbroken.

It’s too much deceit and betrayal for me to handle. All those months of faux-moping around, pretending to be upset? And I bought it. All of it. And the Oscar goes to –

“You son of a bitch,” I snarl just as the taxi slows down in front of the venue. “He’s paying,” I tell the driver and get out, not even caring that I’m right in front of the fans queuing to get in. The support’s on; I can hear them all the way here.

Someone spots me. “It’s Ryan!” They start screaming, even louder as I head straight for the doors, haphazardly feeling my neck and finding the strap of my pass. “It’s Spencer!” And they scream louder. The security is confused as I impatiently show them my backstage pass, shoving them out of the way, pushing off the few girls who have grabbed onto me, screaming. The security intervenes, and I manage to untangle myself.

Spencer is right behind me as we flash our passes to get to the employees-only areas, and I begin heading down a long corridor without actually knowing where the hell I am.

“We gotta talk about this! Just yell at me and get it over and done with!”

“Like that will make me feel better,” I point out venomously. “Like that will change anything!”

“Ryan –”

“Don’t talk to me!” I snap just as my eyes finally spot a dressing room sign. I come to an abrupt stop, and Spencer nearly slams into my back. I make sure to shove him away. He looks hurt by the gesture. “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, so you stay the fuck away.”

His guilty expression changes to worry. “Are you going to tell the others?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” I spit, feeling triumphant that I can hold this sword above his head.

I leave Spencer in the corridor, alone and miserable and so fucking caught in his web of lies. And if I feel sorry for him, only for one second, I push the thought out of my head and focus on the numbing hurt in my chest.

* * *

Spencer plays the show, apologises to the guys for vanishing like that, and disappears afterwards. To go to Haley’s, of course. Or maybe he bought the house, so he is going back to his own place. To watch his daughter sleep. To sleep by his wife for the first time in however long.

He didn’t bother talking to me again. I didn’t tell the others. It was a mess as it was with Joe and Brent’s accusations and Spencer’s apologies.

After I’ve showered and changed, I gather my shit and find my way out of the venue, a sympathetic security guy showing me to a second back entrance to avoid the waiting fans. We have nothing tomorrow until the evening when we get back on the road and leave this miserable place. Spencer’s probably counting the hours, dreading the moment of departure. They’re probably running around with a camera and taking pictures of the happy family, united for the first time.

Spencer’s got a kid. I can’t believe it. We’re too young for that.

I don’t want a family. I don’t think I want one, anyway. I’ve never thought about it. In its own way, it would be interesting to pass on my shit genes, see what kind of chaos that would create. To have this one thing to call my own. My son. My daughter.

I can’t keep plants alive, let alone children.

And then I’d walk around with a ring on my finger, arm wrapped around my wife’s shoulders (not Jac, that has been established clearly enough), and then I can say, “Oh yes, this is my youngest, named him George. George Ross IV. No, you’re right. I am just one more cunt who has never had a single original thought. I’m very proud, thank you. Yes, he is in the chess club, how did you know?” and then we will all chuckle and invite each other over for Sunday roast dinner, and exclaim, “Well, maybe this once I’ll have a second glass of red wine!” And my wife and children smile at me adoringly.

But where’s the sweat? The blood? Life isn’t about smiles and forced politeness. Life is raw, it’s meant to leave marks on you. If you can’t remember anything from the last two years, it’s because you’ve done nothing memorable during them. Fuck that. Fuck my imaginary wife and my bastard children. I want loud music, so loud it hurts my ears, and I want sincerity and vomit and honesty.

If only Spencer hadn’t lied. It somehow feels worse because he lied. He could have told me, and then we could have kept the lie together. If he had let me in just a little bit, but he shut me out, threw me out, closed the door and wiped his hands.

If only he hadn’t lied.

There’s a knock on the door of my hotel room. I look at the vodka bottle on the table. I haven’t opened it yet. I’m about to, and then I will drink myself into oblivion, but now someone wants to take that away from me, too. Joe detests me, Brent is fucking my girlfriend, Spencer is worse than the two combined. Friends, best friends, childhood friends, all vanishing, so what the hell is left?

I open the door.

New friends.

Brendon is standing in the hotel corridor, clearly nervous, and my stomach twists almost painfully. He said he’d visit. Hotel night. He said he’d come around for whatever.

To have me fuck him. Potentially.

“Hey,” he smiles, and I stare at him stupidly. I forgot. I was somewhat preoccupied. Brendon lowers his gaze quickly and rubs his nose. “So you alright? You were acting... weirder than usual tonight.” His hair is wet from a shower. It’s pretty amazing how much roadies can sweat during the shows even though they’re not on stage.

“Yeah, just – I just. Things on my mind.”

Brendon looks over his shoulder and down the corridor. I can hear the sounds of a party not too many rooms away. Joe and Brent for sure. They didn’t even bother inviting me.

“I could help you take your mind off of those things,” Brendon says calculatedly, and when he looks at me again, my brain stops working.

The Look. He is giving me The Look: long lashes, soulful eyes, plump bottom lip snugly between his teeth, and right then rationality evaporates, and I want to fuck him. Pull him into my room and fuck him, and I wouldn’t even care what it’d say about me, as a person, psychologically, sexually, permanently, temporarily.

Brendon probably knows I’m under his spell as he takes a step closer, the tips of his shoes pressing against my bare toes. “You should invite me in,” he whispers, and I can feel his breath against my lips. It’d be so easy to reach out, curl my hand around the Jack Daniel’s t-shirt he’s wearing, and pull him in.

It’d be so easy. Too easy.

“No, yeah. I mean yes. No, I mean – Fuck, I don’t know what I mean,” I laugh slightly hysterically.

He blinks and steps back, clearly confused. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t.” I’m being honest with him. I hope he can figure out how rare that is, how it means something.

But he doesn’t get it. His smile turns into a stony expression of barely hidden anger. His jaw line tightens. “Right.”

I try to keep it simple: I’m just not inviting him in. That’s all I’m doing. Though we both know it’s me turning down whatever we had going on. I just can’t. I’ve got too much on my hands without him, his mouth and lips and smile confusing the hell out of me. I’ve never been attracted to a man before. What does it mean? Sure, Eric claimed that it doesn’t mean shit, but I just don’t find it in myself to believe him. I’ve got no one to talk about it with, either. God, I can’t believe I wanted to confide in Spencer of all people.

I’m too messed up to start screwing around with Brendon.

“Goodnight,” I mumble and close the door to his face. I exhale shakily once I have something between us, my forehead pressing against the smooth wooden surface. I wait until I hear him walk away. And he will go back to scolding me instead of undressing me with his gaze, but it’s what we’ve been doing the entire tour so far, circling each other in some fucked up way.

A few more shows, and then we’ll finish the East leg in Florida. If I can remain sane for that long, avoid Brendon, Spencer too, then I don’t have to see any of them for four sweet weeks.

I sulk back into the room, my steps taking me to the vodka bottle. I could have chosen Brendon’s body. I could’ve chosen his companionship. I could’ve chosen forgiving Spencer, or Brent, or Joe, or myself. But I choose the bottle instead.

Like father, like son.

I don’t have anything to mix the alcohol with, so I drink it straight from a small plastic cup I find in the bathroom, meant for water or to hold a toothbrush or something slightly less depraved.

I drown the second shot and feel the alcohol welling at the pit of my stomach. Tonight was the first time on this tour that I went on stage completely sober. It was just as scary as I thought, but I could only focus on Spencer behind me, the way he drummed, effortlessly, brilliantly, like nothing was wrong, and I hated him.

I’ve never hated him before.

A knock on the door again. I put my plastic cup on the nightstand next to the bottle. It aches somewhere inside, but Brendon can make me forget about that. I can let him in, sit on the edge of the bed, push his head down, and focus on his talented tongue and moist mouth. Neither of us would have to talk.

I go to the door, still unsure whether to tell him to come in or not. I had the strength to turn him down once. Twice, though? I feel a jolt of lust settling in my gut. No one can expect me to do the right thing twice.

The door reveals Spencer, and I freeze, not having expected him. “Hey,” he says tiredly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask sharply because he should be curled up with his wife right about now. He left the venue straight after to do just that.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he informs me and pushes past me into the room where I don’t want him. He looks at the vodka bottle on the nightstand, then at me, and he has that goddamned look in his eyes like he can read me perfectly. He can’t. No one can. I’m keeping secrets too, and it feels oddly satisfying.

“I’m gonna say what I have to say, regardless of what you want,” Spencer says and sits on the edge of my bed. I slowly close the door. He can talk, sure, but I don’t necessarily have to listen. Defiantly, I fetch my vodka bottle first, dangling it in my grip easily as I go to the big armchair by the window, kicking my feet up on the small coffee table next to it. Spencer doesn’t wait for me to signal him to go on as he launches into it himself. “I didn’t choose Haley.”

Thank god.

“She blackmailed you into it, didn’t she? Because of the baby,” I say, because this has been the only even half-sensible scenario I’ve come up with.

“No!” Spencer says, horrified. “No, nothing like that. I mean, we didn’t mean to have Suzie. She was purely accidental. I don’t regret it, though.” He has that proud parent smile on his face again. “I knew Pete wanted her gone, but I refused. You know that, you were there. And then she found out she was pregnant, and we were trying to figure out what to do. I mean, when she gave me the news, I proposed to her on the spot.”

I try not to snort. How valiant of him. How stupid.

“Then Pete went to her with the money. She refused, of course, and she told me what had happened, and it was... an eye opener for me. That Pete had the fucking arrogance to try and do something like that. The music world is so ruthless. It’s not an environment for a family. For a little baby.”

“So you and Haley came up with this master plan,” I supply for him, my tone bitter.

“I came up with it and talked her into it. The shittiest thing I’ve ever had to do,” he mumbles, and I would strongly like to disagree. “She called Pete and said she’d agree, and then you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I do. The way you pretended that you were heartbroken. You even punched Pete,” I recall.

Spencer sits up straighter. “I had every damn reason to punch him! After what he did? Believe me, I had the right! And I’ve been heartbroken. My pregnant wife moving to Cincinnati where I have to pretend she doesn’t exist? Missing her, wondering how she’s doing? I’ve been fucking miserable. When our break starts, I’m coming right back here. But you gotta understand that I didn’t choose her. I chose both.”

“Well, maybe you can’t have both. You ever thought about that?” I snap.

Spencer looks older than he is as he whispers, “I’ve been slowly coming to terms with that, yeah. But...” His voice fades away, and his hands twist in his lap restlessly as his eyes nail to the floor. “I don’t know if I’d make a very good husband. Or if I’d make a decent dad.” He has that tone of intimacy he uses when he is voicing a thought he’s had for the very first time. He swallows hard and tries to smile. “But I know I’m a brilliant drummer. That’s something I know I can do. She wants me to quit the band, but I feel like I’ll only disappoint her more if I do. That I won’t be able to be the guy she wants me to be, the guy she needs. This part, being on the road, nightly shows, the fans, this part I know I’m good at. But I don’t know if I’m good at anything else. What if she only loves me because I’m gone?”

Spencer looks at me with big, sorrowful eyes, like he wants my advice or a brotherly hug or just even a bit of sympathy. I only focus on Haley wanting him to quit the band. Bitch.

“So that’s why you’re still here? Because you feel sorry for yourself?”

Spencer laughs, shaking his head. “God, I keep forgetting how you’ve become so goddamn cruel.”

“I was always cruel.”

“No,” he smiles sadly. “You just wished you were.” He stands up and runs fingers through his hair. I hold my vodka closer to my chest and refuse to look at him. Spencer’s just there, but he’s never felt further away. I love him, despite everything. He has been the only constant thing in my life since the age of seven, but now, he is slipping through my hands.

The only things I’ve ever loved have been things that are bad for me. Not necessarily at the time, but in the end. The idea of Jac, then Spencer, Jackie, me and this lady.

Spencer stops pacing. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I was in a situation where I didn’t know what the right thing was, and I made some bad decisions. You have the right to be angry with me. But just twenty hours ago, I finally got to hold my daughter for the first time, and I... I did right by her. You know that the fans and the press would harass Haley if she was public knowledge, and I gotta protect my girls. They deserve their privacy. My little girl isn’t for sale, not to Pete, not as a publicity stunt or for anything. So I made the right decision. And I think that, that after you get to think about it, you’ll understand where I’m coming from, and, and maybe after that... you won’t be so angry with me anymore.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. It must make it easier for you to sleep at night telling yourself all those useless justifications.” I sit up straight and let my eyes focus on the view out of the window, facing the inner court where the pool is, and people are by it even at this time of night. I feel Spencer’s eyes on me, and he’s sorry. I know he is, and I want to forgive him and get him back on my team. I want to. “If you’re done, feel free to show yourself out.”

My voice manages to break on the last syllable. But it’s not that easy as just forgiving him. What does it change, anyway? Spencer loves his family, more than he loves this band, and I can’t blame him. I don’t blame him for not liking me much anymore.

For the first time, I realise that The Followers will be over sooner than I ever realised. After this tour, Spencer will quit. He didn’t even hint he might, but I know him. He hasn’t changed quite enough for me not to know him.

Give it time.

The door closes behind Spencer.

* * *

The East leg finishes in Tampa, hot and humid in the July weather. It feels like a miracle that we have made it this far, and everyone’s packing up and getting ready for our break. The bus looks clean for the first time since St. Paul, and Pete beams from the achievement as we try to figure out which bit of clothing belongs to whom.

We have two shows in Tampa, but as I gather my bags and walk into the hotel from the bus, briefly signing a few albums for fans waiting outside, I know I won’t be getting back on that bus until weeks from now, and it feels freeing. My nest was not that comforting in the end, just more room for me to label as absence of people. My hotel room is one of the best ones yet with an enormous bed and a small welcome gift bag on the table next to the mirror, inside of which I find two mini whisky bottles. Excellent.

Soon, I will be going back to Los Angeles, to my own place. Jac is in Paris, I think, but she should be in LA in a week or two. I don’t remember why she went to Paris. Someone asked her to. Spencer is off to Cincinnati, and I already know I won’t see either Joe or Brent during the break. The roadies will go to their respective homes, Zack to San Diego, Andy to Milwaukee, William and Brendon to San Francisco. And Pete will probably go back to his place of origin: hell.

It’s the penultimate show, and even I have the energy for it. It’s so close to the end. I don’t usually pay attention, but I’m pretty sure it’s the best gig we’ve done on this tour, or maybe they just really, really love us here. After we’re done, even I say, “Thanks,” into the microphone.

It’s also surprising that I’m sober. I can’t drink with Spencer in the room, the way he silently signals that I am turning into my father. Well, what else is new? What more did anyone ever expect of me?

Joe’s hotel room turns into party central with girls and roadies, and we’re all there, celebrating that tomorrow is the last show of the leg. Twenty-nine down, twenty-six to go.

I sit on the couch and talk to Andy, who is high as a kite but still pleasant to talk to. But I find myself scanning the room for Brendon. He’s with William, always with William. Brendon doesn’t handle rejection well, I’ve learned that since Cincinnati. His pissed off bitch act is in no way endearing, not with how he ignores me, addresses me with short, blunt sentences, and occasionally glares.

Brendon clearly has some growing up to do.

“So,” Spencer’s voice comes from behind me when Andy goes to the bathroom, and I turn to see Spencer leaning over the backrest of the couch. “You ever going to talk to me again?”

“Not if I can help it,” I shoot back instantly.

Spencer’s small smile falters. “Look, man, I’m so –”

I get up before he gets the chance to finish. I don’t care what he has to say. Spencer lets me walk away, doesn’t even have the decency to try and stop me. I find myself a girl, who is immediately taken by me. Of course she is. We start talking, and Brendon keeps shooting us death glares from across the room. Like I let him down too.

“Spence, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Zack calls out, and Spencer is already at the door.

“Need some sleep,” he replies, wary eyes landing on me. “Got a phone call to make.”

He’s going to call Haley, of course. He waves us goodbye, leaving me. The girl comes back with new drinks, but my eyes keep returning to Brendon, who now leaves the crowded room, heading towards the bathroom. For no particular reason, I decide to follow him like us followers do. To give him a piece of my mind.

Brendon is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. He gives me a side-glance as I approach him, his lips forming a thin line. I don’t say anything, just keep my eyes on him.

I lean casually against the wall opposite him, our shoes almost touching in the narrow space. He persistently keeps looking away. “I’m not flattered, just so you know,” I tell him flatly, and he casts me a look like he supposes he must acknowledge my presence. “That you’re upset I’d rather fuck that girl than you.”

Brendon scoffs. “I’m not upset. It’s your loss.” He stands up straighter. “I’m a better fuck than any boy – or girl – you’ll ever meet. You had your chance, and you missed it. So _I’m_ not upset.”

His ranting suggests the opposite. He also has got balls for saying something like that. What if I made him prove he is as good as he claims?

The chattering from the party around the corner seems to fade away. Brendon has this way of making the rest of the world disappear for me.

He bangs the bathroom door impatiently, but gets no response. Maybe someone’s passed out in there. “So did you and Spencer break up, or what?” he now shoots at me, and I feel like he has just plunged his hand into my guts and ripped them out. “I pay attention,” he says obnoxiously.

“You know nothing about that.”

“Funny thing is that you’re so blatantly heartbroken over it, yet Spencer seems to be doing just fine.”

Without thinking about it, I curl my hand into a fist and punch the wall right next to his head. His eyes widen in surprise, but he stands his ground in defiance. That’s his problem. He doesn’t know when to back off. He stares me down, and I have never met anyone who has been able to read me as easily as he does.

The space between us is minimal, and my blood boils. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” he counters just as venomously.

I close the gap between us and kiss him hard. He responds with a desperate sounding grunt, and my hands fly to his hair, fisting forcefully. I don’t care who might come around the corner, who might emerge from the bathroom. Let them see, I don’t care anymore. No one has the moral upper hand around here, and no one certainly has the right to tell me what to do. And screw all the decisions I’ve ever made so far. They’ve only made me miserable. And fuck Brendon and the way he makes me feel, restless and unsettled, on the brink of something I should leave undiscovered. Fuck him. Just fuck him.

I will.

My other hand finds the hem of his shirt, and I pull up the fabric, fingers sliding on smooth, warm skin. He arches into it. God, he’s so desperate for me.

But then Brendon pushes me off him, and I stumble backwards, my back hitting the wall. He is wiping his mouth, his neck flushed. He shakes his head quickly, breathing fast. “Oh no, you had your chance.”

I scoff. “You wanted me, remember?”

“I’ve since seen the light.”

“You don’t say no to me,” I laugh disbelievingly, stepping right back into his space. My hand curls around his left hip, thumb brushing the skin. Brendon’s lips are a gorgeous red, and I admire them. Our breaths mix together. “If I want to fuck you, I’ll fuck you.”

Brendon’s breathing hitches, and I press my crotch right against his. He looks so angry, nearly livid, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark and swirling with emotions I don’t want to read. Is he going to punch me or not?

He launches forward and kisses me, desperate and rough. I bang him back against the wall, our hands everywhere, bruising and needing to touch. I suck on his bottom lip too hard, then push my tongue between his parted lips and fuck his mouth. It feels so heavy and hot all of a sudden. He’s all I can think about, all I can feel.

God, I’m going to fuck him until he passes out of exhaustion.

The bathroom door opens right then, and we pull apart instantly, a wet smack sounding from our starving mouths. Brendon is trying to pull his shirt down a bit, and I just focus on breathing. Joe pokes his head out, too drunk to have noticed anything. It takes him a while to focus on us. “Oh. Hey, guys.”

“Hi,” Brendon replies breathlessly. His voice is low, and I feel my skin crawling with want. I don’t look at Joe at all. Instead, I keep my eyes on Brendon.

“I’m, uh, probably gonna be in here for a while,” Joe explains, and I hear giggling coming from behind him. A girl. Possibly two girls. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, though he is blatantly enjoying himself.

“That’s okay,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Brendon. “I think we were just leaving anyway.”

“Far out. Have a good night now,” Joe grins, and the door slams shut.

Without a word to Brendon, I begin to walk away. I know he will follow.

We snake through the party, and I don’t even care if they see us leaving together. Let them draw their own conclusions if they dare. No one would even suspect that I’d fuck a guy, anyway. It wouldn’t occur to them.

Once we’re out of the hotel room and in the deserted corridor, we walk two steps side by side, and then I have him against the wall again. I push him back from one shoulder, snatching one wrist and feeling his rapid pulse between my fingertips. He fists my hair and groans against my mouth. So hot. Everything feels urgent and rushed. He grinds up against me. Want him naked on a bed, want him begging for it –

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” I mumble against his swollen lips. Brendon groans and tilts his head back in surrender, and I attack his neck, biting on the skin. He smells of sweat and cigarettes and him, that underlining scent that is just him. Something about it is helping my cock get hard really damn fast. “Your room.”

He swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple bob and give into the urge of sucking on it. “Just a few doors down, but it’s with William. Wouldn’t yours –”

“No,” I interrupt him. “Can’t have people hear me fuck you.”

Two men moaning in Brendon’s room? Nothing out of the ordinary. My room? No.

Brendon’s jaw tightens slightly, but I simply let my nose trace his jaw line. He is breathing heavily, and I smile against his cheek cruelly. “God, it pisses you off, doesn’t it?” I ask quietly, shamelessly moving to cup his cock. He gasps and pushes against my hand. He’s a good size. All of that, every inch – “It pisses you off that I make you this hard.”

He grits his teeth. “Just shut up.”

I attack his mouth again, a wet slide of tongues. I tighten my grip of his wrist and guide his hand between us, onto my erection. I want to feel his hand there, want him more than I’ve wanted anyone. He rubs me through my clothes, a small whine escaping his throat. I could push him onto his knees right here, and he’d do it. “Room,” I order.

We manage to make it to his room, and he digs out the key. He suddenly takes off his shoe, though, pulling a sock off. I stare in confusion as he puts the sock over the doorknob. “So William knows not to come in,” he explains.

They have a system. I scoff.

Then I instantly forget all about it.

The hotel door slams shut behind us, and I’m on him, all over him. Brendon groans against my mouth, undoing my tie and pulling it off. We crash against something, a side table. I pull him closer from the belt loops of his jeans, wrapping my arms around his narrow waist. It’s not close enough.

Our noses press together, the stubble on his chin scratching against mine. I let myself have this without any analysis. I can process it all later, what this means, if anything. Now, though, now I know what I want, and I don’t give a fuck about anything else except getting it.

I pull his shirt off, hearing the tearing of fabric, but not caring what got damaged. He doesn’t seem to care either as he goes for my shirt, the top button coming loose. Our mouths smack together loudly, wantonly, and he unbuttons from the top as I unbutton from the bottom, and our rushed hands meet in the middle. His palms press against my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart.

We fight the shirt off me, stumbling towards the bed closer to us. We go for each other’s zippers at the same time. The kiss breaks, our foreheads still pressed together. Brendon’s hands are shaking. So are mine.

“Fuck,” Brendon manages, sounding wrecked already. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

I get him unzipped, shove his jeans to mid-thigh and wrap my fingers around his cock. A barrier of some kind dissolves in me: another guy’s cock. The air feels too hot to breathe. Brendon rocks into my hand, pressing his face into the crook of my neck, panting. He’s as thick as me, but maybe an inch shorter. He’s rock hard.

“Jesus,” I manage, feeling him hot in my hand. I move to cup his balls, the skin tight, run my hand over his length again. Brendon latches onto my neck, muffling a groan. He’s pushed my jeans down, and my cock brushes against his.

I want to try and jerk us off together, I want to watch him jerk off, I want to watch him finger himself, want to see him come, his hips snap, his cock twitch. Want every little dirty thing my vivid imagination has been able to come up with on the occasions I have not been thinking about this.

“I’ll have you know I like foreplay,” Brendon pants heavily, a hint of desperate amusement in his tone, “but we’re just skipping it this time.”

“You fucking bet we are,” I agree, finding his lips again. “Off.”

We part only to undress all the way, and I’m far too focused on him to be self-conscious. I’ve stood in front of the mirror naked, I know what I look like. The hungry look on Brendon’s face suggests that I don’t know, but I merely focus on him.

I snatch his wrist, pull him to me, his naked skin against mine, and then I shove him backwards onto the bed. The mattress bounces; it’s not meant for two people. I straddle him, and his hands are on my hips, warm and firm. Our cocks brush, and the rush in my veins just gets worse. I feel dizzy as the world seems out of focus and surreal.

Then the nervousness hits. Fuck, I don’t want to feel _nervous_. I had a plan: fuck him long, fuck him hard, but the anger that supported the notion is fading away. My chest feels constricted as we keep kissing, him laid out beneath me, hungrily reaching up to touch me. I keep cupping his cock, trying to familiarise myself with it.

I’ve got all night to familiarise myself with his body if I want to. Now I need to focus on the actual point.

Brendon clearly agrees as he says, “The lube’s in the bag.” I take bites at his mouth and keep him where he is. I make the rules here. He does what I say.

He would do anything I say.

It takes me a while to find the lube from the mess of clothes in his bag, but then it’s in my hand. It’s half-empty, and Brendon automatically spreads his legs as I get back on the bed. “How much?” I ask, already pouring some on my palm. I throw the lube on the floor, dipping two fingers in the cool substance.

“Not too much. I prefer less, so I can really feel the burn.”

Fuck, my cock throbs at his words, just picturing him.

I move over him, leaning down to suck on a nipple. No idea what kind of a reaction that will get me, if any, he’s not a chick, and his body is still driving me insane in all the ways it mirrors mine. But it’s more the fact that it’s him, it’s Brendon, and all the things that he keeps to himself, all the fight in him, all the things I can’t figure out, and yet, his body is at my disposal. I need to find at least one way to break his spine and make him sweat.

My fingers clumsily reach between his legs, pushing between his ass cheeks. I don’t look, my coordination is definitely lacking, but I find his hole, a tight ring of muscle. I press two fingers against it, and his body tenses in anticipation. He’s fucking wanton.

There’s no going back from this.

I push my fingers inside. He jerks and pushes into it, a choked, “Fuck,” sounding in the room. God, he’s tight.

I focus on the rhythm, slick fingers tentatively moving in and out of him. Brendon’s fingernails dig into my back, and I keep studying his face: the closed eyes, knitted eyebrows, open mouth, tongue licking his lips. I’ve never seen such concentration on his face, and when I push my fingers in deeper, his features flash with pleasure.

“Just a- Ngh, a steady rhythm will- Fuck, your _fingers_ ,” he pants. I push them deeper, and he groans helplessly. I keep the rhythm as steady as I can, in and out, a slight twist to make him tremble, in and out...

“Tell me when,” I manage, my throat feeling dry. “Say when you’re ready to be fucked.”

He groans, head twisting backwards into the pillow. I watch the way his body arches, chest flushed, the muscles of his stomach quivering, legs parted wide, all this from my two fingers in him. His other arm is flung over his eyes now, and he is biting on his bottom lip. His hips are thrusting against my hand. This is nothing like I thought, nothing like I –

He cries out suddenly, body freezing up, the muscles around my fingers squeezing. “God, right there. That’s the spot, that’s –” he babbles incoherently. The spot? There’s a spot?

He sounds more aroused than I’ve ever heard him, and I decide he’s ready because I need to do something about my own aching hard-on. I pull my fingers out and find the lube again. I take care not to put too much on. If he says he wants to feel it, then I’ll let him feel it.

I place a hand on his hip, let my nails dig in, and I attempt to guide him a little. Brendon looks at me, clearly not getting it. “Don’t you want to get on your hands and knees?” I ask impatiently.

“No,” he replies simply, eyes dark. He spreads his legs further. My stomach drops. My scenarios never included us face to face, no space between us, me deep inside him, him watching me, tangling together.

I take a hold of his hips and pull him closer, and he wraps his legs around my waist automatically. My lube covered cock slides against his ass cheek as I settle, balancing myself with an elbow next to his head. He instantly turns to kiss my arm, tongue tracing my skin wantonly. His entire body is in constant motion, turned on, sex in itself.

“You gotta tell me if I’m not doing something right,” I say, hating having to admit it, but he just nods. I already know that I’ll get off, no problem there, but him?

Brendon fists my hair and brings me down to kiss him. His other hand flies down my spine, over the vertebrae, and settles on my lower back. He whines against my mouth and applies pressure just above my ass. I get the hint, grab my cock, and guide it to his moist and hastily stretched entrance.

The fit in itself is already off. The flushed and red head of my cock is too large for the hole it’s pressing against, and I try to keep my head. “Don’t be a jerk,” Brendon pleas urgently, tone desperate. Is he sure? Do men actually _do_ this with each other? “God, just– just do it, fucking need you, I –”

I push into him, forcing my way inside. Air escapes my lungs. Brendon’s mouth drops open, and he moans. He just – He moans loudly, back arching, looking straight into my eyes. His nails are clawing my back as his body trembles.

I fucked Jac up the ass that one time, but that has got nothing on this. Nothing. Fucking nothing.

Brendon is hot and tight, squeezing every inch of me. I look down to where we’re joined, trying to regain control. Holy fucking hell, I didn’t think it’d feel like this.

Brendon keeps staring at me, pupils blown, and that’s the worst part, how I can’t look away once we lock eyes. I thrust experimentally, and he moans, breathing laboured. “God, you’re so tight,” I groan helplessly, dropping my head against his shoulder.

“You’re fucking huge,” he counters, voice raspy. “Filling me up, you– And fuck, you’re so _hard_ ,” he moans, tone helpless and wretched. We both catch our breaths, but I guess I miss my cue because he asks, “You gonna fuck me or what?”

“Until you can’t fucking walk,” I snarl, but I need another minute to feel like I can move without instantly coming. I keep my thrusts steady but hard to start off with, seeing how he’ll react. I snatch his wrists and pin them above his head, using my weight to keep him trapped. He clearly gets off on being held down, his moans even more guttural. He sounds so fucking dirty when he’s getting fucked, his uneven breathing, the hitches in breath, and then he moans and groans and hisses and gasps –

“Try-” He stops to groan. “Try aiming up when you – Fucking hell, fucking fuck –”

“Try what? Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” I order, and he likes that too. His body shudders, and his cock twitches, brushing against my stomach on each thrust. “Tell me.”

“The angle,” he tries again, licking his swollen and red lips. I have to interrupt him then, just to kiss him. I fuck him hard as our tongues battle fervently. My nails dig into his wrists, and he thrusts up against me. I suck off the sweat that has gathered on his upper lip before pulling back with a wet smack. “Aim up when you push in, just a- God, just a little.”

He’s the expert, so I do. Nothing changes, though, so I keep trying, unsure of what he wants. Then it happens, and his body jolts so violently I have to use force to keep him pinned down like I want him. His muscles quiver and squeeze around my cock, pure fucking bliss, and he nods hurriedly.

“Yeah, like that, like – Ry, you just- Please, don’t stop. Don’t fucking –”

“Not gonna,” I interrupt him, making sure to keep my hips working at the right angle. Brendon is leaking between us now, and I let his wrists go. I curl my fingers in his damp hair, our foreheads pressed together. We pant against each other’s mouths, lips touching every now and then. He meets my thrusts, and I slide so fucking deep into him. He just takes it. He fucking loves it. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this far gone.

He fists the sheets as the headboard bangs loudly against the wall.

I find his hand, our fingers lacing together. This is nothing like I had planned, but I had no idea how intense this would feel, being with him, being in him. I guide his hand between us, and he instantly starts to stroke himself.

“Can I come inside you?” I groan hurriedly. We’re both drawing close now. I’ve been close since New York.

“Please,” he says, choking on the word, and I kiss him. God, he wants me to. My imminent orgasm is pounding in my veins, heavy in my brain, my chest, my stomach, heat curling up, and it’s all him now, all him and this burning –

Brendon comes with a sudden groan, body seizing up, jerking. His muscles all contract at the same time, squeezing me, even tighter than before. My entire body feels it, and I have never felt anything like it. I keep fucking him, pounding into him, and he rides out his orgasm, his body radiating heat against mine. My eyes take in the mess, the white substance now rolling down his flushed cock, over his fist. I pinned him down, pushed inside him, fucked him, made him come and lose control.

I climax instantly with such a force it takes me by surprise. My mind blacks out, but then it’s taken over by a bright light, and my hips snap and snap, and I keep coming, keep coming. My toes curl, and I tremble. Oh _god_. Brendon murmurs something into my ear. I can’t understand what he says.

I’m surrounded by a haze when I’m finally done.

I’m completely out of breath and worn out, muscles aching, covered in sweat, my body tingling from the orgasm. Brendon is staring up at me, also trying to catch his breath. I try to say something, but my brain won’t work. Instead, I pull out. He winces, his legs loosening their deadlock around me. I will have bruised hips tomorrow. So will he.

He is still close to me. We’re now pressed together, crotch to crotch, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. It feels comfortable, and I want to tangle onto him, fall asleep, wake up and do this again. Our legs begin to entwine. I want to kiss him, slow and soft. I –

I snap into reality. I roll off of him onto the limited space between him and the wall. The pillow and the duvet are now on the floor. Brendon exhales loudly, wiping his stomach with his hand, but only ends up smearing his semen on a wider surface. He makes a face and retrieves a pair of boxers from the floor, cleaning himself up.

“Those are mine,” I manage to say. My boxers now covered in his come. I notice that I’ve got some on me too.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clearly not bothered. His hand is trembling slightly, still from the aftershocks. I stare at him, feeling fucking shaken up. I don’t – I was just gonna fuck him. That is all I had planned, I swear. He smiles to himself. “You just broke the law, you know that?”

“What?”

“This is illegal. Two guys fucking.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say. How could _that_ be illegal?

He drops the boxers back onto the floor, lying back down, gorgeous, naked and glowing. I wish I could smirk, make a sleazy comment, brush this off, but it feels so heavy.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow at me. I reach over him, snatching the corner of the duvet on the floor. I pull it over us and pull him to me, thinking for a second that maybe he will push me off. He doesn’t.

He smells like me.

My heart swells up.

He doesn’t speak, but neither do I. But our hands keep moving, tracing patterns until I’ve fallen asleep, curled up in him.

* * *

I’m sleepily moving my hand on the sheets that are still warm, cracking open one eye. Light has flooded the room. I’m alone in bed. God, I feel so well rested.

I roll onto my back, sighing quietly and feeling content. The shower is running. My cock is half-hard, and I absently reach down to grab it, letting my fingers move on it. This is going to be a good day, I can already tell. Jac can blow me once she comes out of the shower.

My head rolls to the side, and I breathe in the sheets. They smell good. But they don’t smell like her. It’s better, it’s...

Brendon.

I jerk to sit up on the bed, bewildered. The shower keeps running. Brendon’s in there. My back feels sensitive. His fingernails. My hips feel sore. His hands. My fucking mouth feels raw. His lips.

Our clothes are scattered across the floor. The sheets are a mess.

He’s in the shower. Naked. I’m here. Naked.

We fucked.

I’m fucked.

Last night plays itself in my head in flashes of hands and lips, our bodies tangling, moving, but most of all I remember him. I feel short of breath.

I need to get dressed so I can get the hell out of here.

My boxers are covered with dried come – I remember him wiping himself off, his lower stomach, white streaks decorating, his cock softening, how he looked, how it made me feel. I pull them on, ignore the dried come on me. Clothes. Need more clothes. Can’t come out of his room half-dressed.

My shirt is next to a knocked over side table. I manage to get it on, and it’s hanging off me when the bathroom door opens. Brendon is towelling his wet hair. His eyes land on the bed first before spotting me. “Hey.”

He’s absolutely naked and clearly not even the tiniest bit self-conscious about it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything as attractive.

“Morning,” I manage.

His eyes take me in silently. I can’t read his thoughts. I really wish I could.

“Your tie’s over there,” he says in this annoyingly neutral tone, and I spot my tie next to his suitcase. I quietly retrieve it, twisting it in my hands. Brendon sits on the edge of the bed and keeps towelling his hair. “So are you leaving already?”

“I was just...”

Running away.

“You got interviews today?”

“No,” I rush to say, glad to have something tangible. “No interviews. Last show tonight. Insane, huh? Can’t wait for the break, a whole month without shows. Sounds like heaven right about now.” Pause. “God, I’m starving. Breakfast’s included, right? I could really do with some bacon and egg scramble.”

Brendon smiles to himself, a hint of a smirk in it. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” I ask, now buttoning my shirt hurriedly. A few are missing. They must have come off when we...

“You’re freaking out.” He stands up, wrapping the towel around his waist where I just manage to catch a few bruises. He has bite marks here and there on his chest and neck. I really fucking went for it, didn’t I?

“I’m not freaking out,” I scoff. He rolls his eyes. “Hey, we fucked. I’m completely fine with that. I’m not freaked out.”

“No?” he asks disbelievingly.

“No.”

“Well, then we should do it again. You’ve got nothing to do, I’m always horny in the mornings...” he trails off, and I am relatively sure I gulp loud enough for him to hear. He shakes his head, scorn in his eyes. “Such a typical conflicted faux heterosexual.”

“Don’t try and analyse me,” I snap. Something keeps beating wildly in my chest, a yearning, a burning sensation. I want to touch him. I want to take him up on his offer. And fuck him, I’m totally not gay. “I gotta go,” I mutter before we start fighting again.

Brendon shrugs like it’s all the same to him. The thought pierces through me painfully. Last night wasn’t just –

It should matter. That’s all.

I find my jeans and pull them back on, and he turns the TV on, not paying attention to me. I see the tension in his shoulders. I could make it vanish with one kiss to the nape of his neck. The sunlight hits his pale skin, making him glow.

He’s not looking my way as I tie my shoelaces, finally good to go. “I’ll catch you later,” I mumble more to myself and finally head to the door.

“Ryan?”

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is racing.

“Just that,” he begins and pauses. “If you change your mind or whatever, I’ve got nothing to do until soundcheck. Even if you want to just hang out.” He finally looks at me.

I made him sweat, broke his spine. I got under his skin.

I nod in response and leave. I do a paranoid check to make sure no one I know sees me coming out of his room, but there’s only a hotel cleaner down the hallway. I don’t remember my room number and initially get the direction wrong.

My bed hasn’t been slept in. It feels empty. Hotel rooms always feel clinical somehow with the tailored sheets, the mint on the pillow placed just in the very middle. Like anyone would actually live here.

Brendon’s room felt different. It felt lived in.

I should be over it now. Eric said it’d be out of my system.

I go for a shower to get his smell and come off me. My cock’s been hard since Brendon said we should do it again. He probably noticed, but was kind enough not to say anything. I jerk off in the shower, biting my own arm to keep quiet as I fist myself with the other. I can’t believe how hard I come, the fresh memories still playing in my head.

The TV entertains itself as I get dressed. It’s the same channel Brendon had on, some local one. They promise hot, humid weather, a lovely summer day in Florida. I sit on the edge of my large, cold bed and stare at the screen.

If I go back, what then?

Maybe it’d be like this: I go back, knock on his door. He is waiting for me. I fuck him again, but now the room is full of light, now I can see him better. I see him for the second time. The first time was last night. I saw him.

And then we lie there, basking in the afterglow, and it’s insane how I’m instantly ready for more. His body is amazing, is hot and willing. Then we have to head for the venue, and I play the show, and he smiles at me from the side of the stage. Afterwards, in the midst of the party signifying the end of the first leg, I lean into his ear and say, “You want to come to LA with me?” He is currently homeless, after all, sleeping on people’s couches. And he comes with me. I show him all the places I go to, take him out to my favourite bars. We’re just hanging out like he offered. Spencer tries calling me, but I’m so busy with Brendon that I don’t have time for him. Spencer ceases to exist. Then Jac flies in from Paris, but I don’t want to see her because all I can think of is Brent fucking her, so we leave for San Francisco. Jac and Brent cease to exist. I get us a room in an expensive hotel, and then it’s his turn to show me all the places that make up his life. This new one he has made up. I want to see it in detail.

And he sees all the fucked up baggage I carry around, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t try changing me, because he gets it. He’s the only one who gets it. It’s worth more than gold. And knowing that, I hold it somewhere safe where no one else can see it. We’d be the only ones who’d know.

I burst out laughing at my own scenario. What the hell has gotten into me? I barely know him. He’s just some arrogant, lying faggot of an ex-Mormon, who has to use fancy foreign words to give himself a personality. And there’s me: a fucking star.

And yet...

And yet.

I look to the door of my room. My feet are already anticipating my decision, tips aimed towards my way to him.

What should I do? What do I do now that I’ve gotten myself into this?

My eyes land on the TV screen. The anchorwoman is talking about a restaurant shooting. Brendon is watching the same thing, probably waiting to hear a knock on the door. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

“You are going to see another first,” the news anchor says. “Attempted suicide.”

On screen, a young anchorwoman takes out a gun. She shoots herself in the head. It happens fast. She falls forward onto the table, and the camera films her twitching body.

She just blew her brains out on live television.

I can’t breathe.

The program switches to a public service announcement.

I’m shaking violently.

The worst thing that could happen.

 

 

_end of Vol.1 – I_


End file.
